Chapter 7

Head First

They pick out a hotel room on the edge of the city, the run-down part where the buildings huddle unpainted and the air conditioning units pockmark the walls like dry barnacles. They have enough money to pay for it for about two weeks.

As they lay down to sleep in the still blue darkness, they don't talk.

Nat wakes up with the first morning light, filtering through the blinds, soft and pink. It creeps over their face as they stare at the ceiling and come back into their body, nerve by nerve, limb by limb. There is an ache inside them, like Rabbit has dug a chasm, like she's cut parts of them that should never see the light. It burns as they twist to sit up, and it burns as they peek down at Ron in the waning dark, his body crammed to the furthest edge of the double bed, his back turned to them.

"Hey," they say softly.

He grunts in response.

"We made it."

"Uh huh," Ron says, his voice thick with sleep.

"We're alive. We really made it out of there. Can you believe that? After that week of horrors?"

"Yeah," he says, expressionless. "Super cool."

Nat scooches until their hip touches his back, resting their weight on a hand next to his stomach, Nat's body a protective arc over his. He's taken his arm out of the sling, though he still curls around it. His black eye is starting to resolve into blue and red, dark on his brown skin, and Nat watches it shift as he squints up at them.

"What?"

They nudge his shoulder for him to lay on his back, and Nat swings their leg across him to straddle him, a hand on either side of his face. His don't rise to meet them, though. He simply lays there, looking up at Nat with a deep weariness.

Nat tilts their head at him, questioning. "Let's unwind?"

He grunts again, pushes them off halfheartedly by the shoulder. "It's, what, five in the morning? Go use that energy to get us something to eat."

Nat flops back down onto their side dramatically. It kind of hurts, in more ways than one. They huff. "Okay, fine." They slink out of bed and throw on a pair of shoes.

What was once the proud capital of just one of the 50 states of the USA is half wasteland nowadays. About three decades after the fall of the United States, somewhere around the first population collapse of the 22nd century, countries like this one stopped attempting to wage war on their neighbors for dominance of the area and started to build back trade agreements instead. But for Albuquerque, it was too little too late. The majority of the population lives in the east of the city towards and in the mountains, away from the war-torn western side of the city and hopelessly dependent on agricultural products from the north. Cities like this one hold out because people have always lived here, not because there is really much of anything to do.

Nat ducks under a too-low shop sign and step over a suspicious puddle into one of the few convenience stores this place has to offer. The pleasant ding of the door says 'I am twenty years old', and the lack of a security guard by the door says 'this shop is not even worth robbing'. But, right there at the back of the store, locked behind glass, is exactly what they need right now.

Naturally, they don't have the money for FastTrack. But, naturally, they don't need any.

"We should do something," they say, standing in the middle of the hotel room with their hands on their hips.

Where he's draped under the blankets, Ron blinks up at them from his phone. He pauses what sounds like a heat-runner stream with a look of tired suspicion on his face. "Do something?" he says. "We literally look like a pair of bruised pears right now."

"Well, I don't mean anything physically demanding," Nat flaps their hand impatiently. "I mean something inside. We can't just hang around in this shabby hotel room all day, can we?"

"No, we can. I'm gonna. How are you even on your feet right now?"

"And besides," they ignore that, "we're almost out of money."

"Great," he says. "You're putting me to work."

He couldn't be mad at them any more clearly. Well, he could, if he was anybody else. If he was the type to use his God given mouth and explain what's up, for example.

There were words, in the heat of the moment, sure, but he wasn't being rational, he was crying in their arms for God's sake. When he gets that emotional, he doesn't really mean any of what he says.

"I am not putting you to work," they protest. "Ron—Ron." Nat crouches down next to the bed, onto his level, twinging uncomfortably as they feel their cuts pull. His eyes meet theirs, big and brown, and for a moment, it takes everything they have to not ask him 'do you trust me?' But right now, they're scared of the answer.

"I just think we should have some fun," Nat says instead, tamping down on the feeling.

They need to make use of the incredible luck they're having right now. They can't just let this pass them by.

They survived.

The worst has happened. They were infected, colonized, cut apart; and yet, Nat survived. They've escaped the water facility, escaped the zombie flowers, escaped Rabbit too. Hell, they even got away with what they did to Matcha. It feels like God is finally smiling down on them, like his invisible hand has decided Nat has suffered enough and that it's time to finally pick them out of the mud.

The winds are blowing in their favor. And damn it, they will drag Ron by the scruff if they have to.

Ron holds up his phone. "I'm having fun right now."

"I mean the real kind of fun," Nat says. "You know." They peer at him. "A con."

At that, he sits up, though Ron still looks hesitant. "What, like, without prep? Just cold-read some fucker? Or a melon drop?"

"No, stupid. That's not fun. That's nothing. I have something planned, something great, but I need your help."

Wary, but obviously hooked, Ron sticks his phone into his pocket and sits up. "Okay, but seriously, you need to rest. And I know my arm's out of the sling now, but so do I."

"Unless," Nat lifts a hand, and dramatically marches over to pull the FastTrack out of their grocery bag, triumphantly holding the expensive, blue healing fluid to the light.

Ron startles, then exhales slowly. "That expensive crap? You crazy motherfucker."

"Are you telling me that you don't want any?"

"Fuck it. What's the plan?"

The plan is a casino, right on the other end of town. River's End Casino is a squashed building, painted and decorated in the retro-futuristic style of the late 21st century. It's a bizarre sort of nostalgia that takes hold of Nat as they move to take a seat at one of the holographic poker tables, a longing for a time they were never part of.

Nat lingers, their hand on Ron's shoulder as he plays his hands. Nat has an eye on the other people around the table as he does, drinking in every twitch of an eyebrow, every fail of a poker face. And they both get odd looks, bandaged and injured as they are, but it turns out to be an advantage. People are distracted. And the two of them have a system by now, every squeeze of Nat's hand a different meaning. He's counting cards as they're dealt, disappearing them into his sleeve when they aren't useful, careful to strike a good balance between winning and losing that's just on the side of a win. They'll lose about half of what they've brought to the table, then make it big and fuck off immediately.

That's the plan, at least.

Unfortunately, the bouncer didn't get that message.

He stops them on the way out, his hand hard on Ron's shoulder. He's a burly guy, with a shaved head and a neck like an ox.

"Hey," he says.

"Sup?" Ron smiles nervously.

"Can we help you?" Nat bats their lashes at him, laying their own hand on Ron's arm and trying to turn on the charm.

"You two had a good game there, huh?" he squints at Nat.

"We sure did!" Nat laughs. "He really got lucky today. Ups and downs, am I right?"

"More ups than downs, I'd say," he raises his eyebrows, then turns to Ron. "I'm gonna need to see your sleeves."

"My sleeves?" he laughs. "These things?" Ron stretches out his open palms and turns his arms so ox guy can see.

"The insides."

"Ohhh, yeah, sure, the insides," Ron says. He takes a step back to get out of the guy's grip and shrug his jacket off his shoulders.

Then he ducks and makes a run for it.

The bouncer shouts out in outrage. Nat is still within his grasp, but he goes for Ron instead, grabbing him by the back of his jacket as he's half out the door already. Nat grabs for his arm, but he's a fucking bear of a guy, and he throws them off like it's nothing. Ron winds out of his sleeves, but just as he's about to be free, the bouncer grabs him by the back of the head and bashes his face against the glass door with a loud crack.

Nat sees red.

They come to again on top of the bouncer, on the ground, when an arm wraps around their waist, pulls them back. They have to let go of the guy's throat to thrash, but who yelps isn't a stranger, it's Ron.

"Oh fuck," Nat says, and he pulls them up and out the door, his hand in theirs as he yanks them towards the car.

"What the fuck," Ron chants. "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck. Come on, in." He throws the passenger door open and stuffs Nat in, but as they look up at him, he freezes.

There's blood running down his chin, a stark red trickle, and Nat's gaze flicks to that before they can see the look of pure terror in his eyes.

"What?" they ask, and as their mouth moves, they taste it. "Wait, is this mine?" they ask, and run their tongue over their teeth to lick up the blood. No. No, this definitely isn't theirs.

"Ow!"

"Of course 'ow', because you never hold still!"

Ron grumbles in defeat, but still pulls away from Nat for a moment to snuffle loudly, then spit the resulting blood out into the sink of the hotel bathroom. When he leans back in, Nat finishes wiping at his mouth, then hands him back the ice pack for his nose.

"Maybe it's not broken", Nat wagers, and downs a load of pain killers, dry.

"Nah", Ron sniffs, "It definitely is." He avoids their gaze, shoulders hunched. "But as long as it's not crooked, we're good."

"No, don't worry. While your vanity is still unfounded, you're not any uglier than you were before." He doesn't return their grin, just stares at Nat and holds his ice pack, a haunted look on his face.

It mirrors the one he gave them in the casino parking lot, quiet and terrified, and Nat has no earthly idea how to deal with the way that it makes them feel.

Just when they want to speak, though, Ron cuts them off.

"Are you even a little bit sorry?"

"...What?"

"You know what I mean." His voice hitches on it, his gaze not quite meeting theirs.

"How was I supposed to know that the casino bouncer is this trigger happy?" Nat gasps.

"Not that. Although a sorry about that one sure would be nice. The other thing. The whole..." He waves his hand.

"The fact that I bit him? Or—what are you—oh," Nat says at the look on his face. "...I mean, this entire thing was horrible! For both of us! But we fixed it, and I took you out for card counting to make it up to you!"

"That was you making it up to me?" he laughs in disbelief. "Putting me to work to make money? Getting my fucking nose broken? Are you fucking serious?"

"How was I supposed to know that that part was going to happen?!"

"I mean, no, okay, you couldn't! But how about using your goddamn mouth to say the words 'I'm sorry'? Or even 'hey dude, sorry that I pulled you into this entire fucking mess'!"

"None of it was on purpose," Nat snaps.

"Cool! Still happened! Fucking hell, Nat, I had to trade favors with Rabbit of all people! She's a fucking maniac, she punched my lights out when I didn't want to let her stuff me into a cell!"

"Wait, is that where you got that black eye from?" Nat gasps.

"Yes! And then she locked me in there for an entire fucking week! And I had nightmares about dragging your unconscious body into the back of the car! I had nightmares about duct-taping your limbs! I had nightmares about your teeth!"

Something grips their heart in their chest and squeezes. He's close to tears now, eyes shining red in the lamplight of the bathroom, hiding as much of himself behind the ice pack as he can like he's expecting something terrible to happen. Like he expects Nat to bite again. And the floating feeling they've been coasting on finally turns, and Nat plunges into the deep.

"I'm—"

"Sorry?" he finishes for them.

"I don't want to lose you!" they burst out. And they will. They will. So Nat grits out, "I'm sorry, I never wanted that for you! I never should have gone down into that basement in the first place, I'm an idiot, I—" They're crying. Big, bubbly tears that they know are streaking their face grey with runny eyeliner, and that feel like they're coming right out of their stomach, where a huge, angry, sad hole is starting to form that feels like it's going to eat Nat alive.

He doesn't rise to hug them, doesn't pull them close, doesn't comfort Nat. They're just crying in front of him, and Ron doesn't do anything about it.

"Nat," he says quietly, "I can't do this anymore. The hiding. The paranoia. The scraping by, always just barely. The fucking—You got got because of your flowers. Right? That's the whole damn reason you even went down there. That's the reason you couldn't just get treatment. That's—"

"What?" they sob. "What are you talking about?"

"What I'm talking about is the—the grip that those things have on your brain stem. They're pumping you full of shit decision juice! You tried to rip a guy's throat out today! With your teeth! And don't think I didn't see the way you latched onto that basement zombie, dude, you were high as hell off your own supply!"

"What do you know about that? You wouldn't know a biology text book if it bit you! You can barely even read!"

"This shit again? You know that's—fuck it, I'm not fighting with you about that right now. You and me both know that I'm right."

"I am not!" they shout, "getting rid of my flowers!"

Ron flinches, wide-eyed and tense. Like they'd hurt him. Like there's no trust between them at all. And if telling them to cut the one thing out of themself that makes them special wasn't enough already, that's a betrayal that's not going to stand.

"Who", they hiss, "set you up to this? Which slimy little snake paid you enough to sell me out? I know that your morals are for sale, and I love that in you, but—"

"But nothing", Ron growls. "I can think for myself." He tries to wind away from Nat. But Nat grips his jaw in their hand, forces him to look at them as they bare their teeth in his face. "Wh—Let go!" He tries to pry their fingers off him, but Nat just pulls him closer.

"Not before your brain starts working properly again! I can't get rid of my flowers. I know you're just talking out of your ass when you say you understand, so I'm going to explain this to you very slowly. These beauties have roots, and those roots are wrapped around my veins and arteries. This isn't like the myosotis that Rabbit cut out of me, this has anchored itself to my core. We are integrated. I would die, you fucking idiot. Bleed to death, a mess of cuts and plant matter. And then fucking what?"

They're not planning to let go until he comes to his senses, but they make the mistake of tightening their grip on his face for effect, so he twists around their hand and bites their fingers. Nat stumbles backwards with a shriek, aghast.

"Rabbit already cut one kind out of you!" he argues. "And if she can do that shit, then someone else can, too! There's no way in hell she's the only one good enough with a knife. People do this all the time when they go and remove plant matter from corpses—"

Nat feels themself go very, very pale.

"And you're gonna be fine!" Ron rushes on. "You're gonna live, and you can finally stop hiding, and—"

"You'd love to think that, wouldn't you? Does that ease your conscience?" They snarl, unsteady. "Will it help you sleep, after you force me through this for your own comfort, and I kick the fucking bucket? Oh, dear me, it was an accident. Who could have seen this coming. Who could have known," they shout, "that there is no use for me anymore after the removal! That surgeons don't let people like me live! And even if they do," they shake, "what even am I without these? A failed experiment! A nice try! I would be nothing!"

"Actually." Ron's breath shakes, but his voice is low, as low as it would be if they hadn't been shouting right in his face. "Actually, you would still be such a melodramatic fucking asshole."

It's like Ron just flipped a switch inside them. Their face goes from angry-frozen-scared to drowning in tears again. They try to tear themself away from him, have to get out, want to rush for the door and flee. But he grips their arm, pulls them back, tries to stop Nat, and what that earns Ron is a slug to the face.

Their knuckles are still burning with it as Nat runs out the door.