veryroundbirdfics | Arknights | Hand in Unlovable Hand, Chapter 17

Rating: Spicy
Chapter: 17/28
Characters: Doctor (F), Kal'tsit, Amiya, various others
Relationships: Doctor/Kal'tsit, Kal'tsit/Theresa, Theresa/Doctor
Summary: Dr. Lau returns to Rhodes Island a stranger in a strange land, in a labyrinth of things that feel like they should be familiar but aren't—and at the center is Dr. Kal'tsit and all the things she's not saying. Even if amnesia's changed her, though, the Doctor wouldn't be the Doctor if she didn't have an impulse to solve for the missing variable.
Notes: while this fic is marked as "spicy" the only actual sexual content is in chapters 8, 9, 17, 23 and 27, and there's cliff notes for the scenes at the bottom of the chapter. sexual content is noted in the start of chapters where it appears.

PRTS LOG @ 1830: Dr. Lau enters the decontamination chamber of the Rhodes Island Integrated Bioprocessing Unit. System notes intentions of subject through analysis of available biological data; Dr. Lau is carrying one unit of Cautus human remains not consistent with the profile of any Rhodes Island personnel.

PRTS LOG @ 1830: Furthermore, system observes that Dr. Lau is in a bad mood.

PRTS LOG @ 1830: Dr. Lau is unresponsive. Whether silent protest or refusal to communicate, system believes it is an expression of an autism spectrum disorder. System indicates that no judgment is meant, and that Dr. Lau should feel free to speak or not speak by her preference.

PRTS LOG @ 1831: Query from Dr. Lau. "And what would count for a good mood?" System detects tonal usage consistent with verbal sarcasm, correcting for high amounts of strain.

PRTS LOG @ 1831: System indicates that good and bad are subjective judgments, but that this system has collected nearly all documented states of mental activity, as well as hormonal criteria for various types of neurological excitement, and that there is an argument to be made for the system's subjective judgment being substantially closer to objective truth.

PRTS LOG @ 1832: Dr. Lau makes a gesture at the ceiling commonly considered to be rude in the Greater Lungmen area.

PRTS LOG @ 1832: System reminds Dr. Lau that it is equipped with nonlethal pacification functions, and is authorized to use them should she take unreasonable action to ensure consistency of behavioral standards.

PRTS LOG @ 1833: System provides standard reentry greeting.

PRTS LOG @ 1833: Query from Dr. Lau. "Can this really be called home?" System detects tonal usage consistent with a rhetorical question. Response deemed unnecessary.

The Rhodes Island Integrated Bioprocessing Unit is an unadorned room with sheet metal walls and flooring, and several hatches set into the wall, from which can be extended metal biers of approximately 2.5 meters long by 1.5 meters wide by 15 centimeters deep.

If there is anything intended to be looked at in this room, it is the simple signage hung next to each hatch, on Rhodes Island letterhead, providing operational instructions and warnings, but it's not a complicated process. Place the biomass to be processed on the bier, and then press the button next to the hatch to send it for processing, closing the hatch behind it.

This room is exactly and clinically what it needs to be for what it needs to do, which is to prevent the further spread of infection as decomposing Infected biomass is consumed by crystallization. Which is to say: it is a crematorium.

The mass (corpse/body/opponent/friend) should be placed on a bier, although at this point there is little urgency to it. Its (her) size belies how little it (she) actually weighs, at rest. Late-stage Oripathy frequently causes the body to waste away as nutrient absorption becomes inefficient and organs shut down.

There is only one thing left to do.

"...are you Dr. Zhanchi?"

How long was spent, watching FrostNova's silent, still features? The voice jolts you (you?) back to alertness. Standing at your elbow is a feline girl—even smaller than Amiya—with silver hair and lamplike green eyes.

It takes you a moment to collect yourself, but she doesn't seem bothered.¹ "It's you—I'm sure of it," she goes on. "I can feel it... you're a little different."²

She tears her gaze away from you, though, to look at—

...what's in front of both of you, tilting her head slightly. "But, that person—that uniform..." She looks up at you again.³ "Can I ask who that is?"

A long pause.⁴ "A... one of my people,"⁵ you say, finally. "One of my people."

The girl hums, briefly and quietly. "Is she Infected too...? Ah—no, that's not what you meant."⁶

She fidgets slightly with her hands, rolling a lock of hair idly between her fingers in thought.⁷ "Dr. Zhanchi, you seem like you lost something. But you barely know her at all."

You bristle, slightly⁸—but she doesn't really seem to notice.⁹ "I don't know," she says, after another moment, studying FrostNova's features, like she might divine something new from them. "This might disappear soon."

"You..." You bite the inside of your lip, and let out a breath. "Do you feel...?"¹⁰

"Traces of people communicating with each other. Smell, warmth, shape.¹¹ I'm not sure, but she..." The girl reaches out a hand, tentatively; like she's pausing for permission. You don't stop her, but after a moment, she pulls her hand back.

"...hm," she says. "No—you don't want me to do that?"¹² She looks up at you, like she's trying to confirm it; you shrug, and she frowns in thought. "No. I'm an outsider. I don't know her."

She shakes her head, gently, once. "I can't do this, can I? I'm sorry."¹³

"Is that..." You hesitate. "Mind-reading? Like Amiya?"

"No, I can't," she says, wrapping her arms a little tighter around the tablet she holds against her chest. "Amiya is special. I know Amiya's Arts..." She glances at you.¹⁴ "I think she suffers a lot."

You don't quite know what to say to that, so you don't say anything.¹⁵ She, meanwhile, looks down at her hands. "I... can't touch her, and I can't feel her," she says. "Her connection to this world has no connection to me—I have no right to touch her."¹⁶

She looks up at you again, though, very seriously. "Did you want... to use this machine?"

You take a deep breath. You let it out.

"If this is the final resting place of the Infected," you say.

"...it is," she says, and shows you what to do.

It turns out despite her age and size, she is Elite Operator Rosmontis.¹⁷ The fact that she knows so easily how to use this room tells you more than enough, even before she says that she's always taken care of her teammates here herself.

When you ask her why she took that on, she says: "Mm... it's like a chain. Sending off the people tied to you means untangling the lines around them. They're still tied to us, but even when the one side is gone, the threads don't hang down.¹⁸

"It feels like you've lost something inside yourself. Something you didn't know was there, but knowing it won't come back."

And then adds: "But if you know the feeling, it won't suddenly sting you."

You think about threads, swallowing around the lump in your throat. You think about how FrostNova how she said she was at your side from now on, in her last moments. You think about her father's tall silhouette in the distance;¹⁹ the way she asked you to try to save Talulah.²⁰

Rosmontis helps you with the rest, until she's called away to deal with some situation outside.²¹ Something about the way she gently says "bye-bye" to FrostNova makes something feel like it's breaking inside of you.

You make it back to your quarters. You collapse on your face. You sleep.

[1] You're not sure if it's patience, disregard, or—stranger: being on a similar wavelength.

[2] Normally, that kind of thing would twist your stomach a little bit; it might, still? But everything feels a little bit faraway.

[3] She doesn't quite meet your eyes every time she looks at you, just like you don't meet hers; a tacit agreement, of sorts.

[4] What do you even say? What do you have the right to call this woman who was your enemy, and who you are now mourning like... you don't know. A friend? A sister? A daughter? You don't even know why the grief is choking you over this. You've never felt like this before.

[5] You suppose, after all, that it's true. She was, in her last moments, a Rhodes Island operator, and now she always will be.

[6] From the outside, this is probably an odd conversation, but there's something strangely conforting about its ebbs and flows to you. She's an odd girl, but you're an odd woman, after all.

[7] Not out of nervousness, it seems; just something to do with her hands while she considers.

[8] And then get a hold of yourself; the conflicting flood of wanting to argue that, but also knowing you really do barely know this woman, as intense as your encounters were in the time that you did.

[9] Which you're thankful for; it's a bad look to get mad at a child, and—you're not sure she means any judgment by it.

[10] The way she talks about all of this—it seems like it's not just her guesses, but rather... something like a particular way of understanding.

[11] ...when she puts it like that, it... makes an odd kind of sense, to you. In a way, it's not far from how you put together your own understanding of what's before you—that hyper-awareness of every fine detail that makes you constantly wish you could take a nap on top of your disordered sleep.

[12] It's not... that, exactly; she's right, though, that something about it makes you hesitate. You're not entirely certain you have the right, even if the last thing FrostNova did was touch your face.

[13] You don't even know what she's sorry for, but you know the feeling of being generally sorry. Relatable.

[14] There's a seriousness in it, this time; the gravity of someone who intends to impress their next point upon the listener.

[15] Certainly, you can't disagree, as much as Amiya might protest.

[16] It's an... interesting way to think about it. You can't seem to help feeling everything around you, most of the time, except when you're shutting down completely.

[17] When you're not busy being dead inside you're going to pick a fight with Kal'tsit, probably.

[18] No, they don't hang down at all, do they? It feels like if there's threads as she says, they've wrapped themselves around your throat.

[19] Her father, who will almost certainly be someone you have to face, whether in the near or far future; with whom you will have to reckon.

[20] You don't know Talulah. In a way, you could say what Rosmontis said about FrostNova—that you don't have any connection to her at all. But you remember everything FrostNova said about the Talulah who was her friend, how it wasn't so different from what Rhodes Island is now, in the beginning... will you mourn her, too?

[21] Normally, you'd express some concern, since—even if she's an Elite Operator, she can't be out of her early teens at best, but. You just—can't.

You dream. You remember: tightness in your throat. A haziness in your head. Maybe more like smog, or shadow. Claustrophobic.

And then: gentle, soft hands on your shoulders. A heaviness falling away—you're not sure whether it's your jacket or the panic or both. Warmth being pressed to your forehead.

"Zhanchi," Theresa says, petting your hair, gently. "I'm sorry."

The words still stick in your throat, but you shake your head. No, no, it's not you.

"Still, though," she says, as if you'd communicated perfectly. "This is because of what I ask of you, isn't it? You push yourself hard."

She always understands you. Too well, maybe. You turn your head away, slightly, and cover your face with both your hands like that'll make you feel less uncomfortably seen. "I don't know what else I would do," you say. Your voice wobbles a little bit, and she pulls you in against her, enfolding you into her arms, and tugging you down with her onto the edge of the bed.

"I know it's hard to feel," she says. "But stay with me. All right?" And you try to focus on her, to think about what's in front of you, rather than what's behind, rather than on all that you left in the bioprocessing unit.

You nod against her shoulder, and wrap your arms around her waist. The question on your mind is always why me? Even if everyone says that no one can do what you do on the battlefield—the King of Kazdel doesn't take people on for their strengths or their usefulness alone.

And once again Theresa answers you, without you saying the words: "You know," she says, "you and Kal'tsit aren't so different. I love you both because you care so, so much—even if you show it in different ways. Even if it's hard for both of you."

She smooths your hair back from your face. "You deserve a world that's worthy of that care," she says. "A world that will love you the way you deserve to be loved; a world that will understand you the way you deserve to be understood."

You give a quiet exhale of breath against her hair; she just tilts her head against yours, gentle.

"You know," she says, quietly, "I don't... know that I've ever really had people I could call close friends, before Kal'tsit, and before you. I suppose I never really fit anywhere I was supposed to be, either. No one ever knew what to make of me. And I realized I couldn't be anyone other than what I was—and that if there wasn't a place for me, then I'd have to make one. A place that could be home."

"Is that—" You finally manage some words. "...here?"

She laughs, lightly. "I think so. I hope... it can be a home for Kal'tsit, too, who's been rootless for so long, and—also for you, if you want it."

It feels like the nicest thing anyone's ever said to you. Love has always been hard for you to grasp, as an emotion—to put a name to, if or when you feel it—but this is the best way you've been able to understand it.

You shift your head slightly, to kiss her neck; soft. "Ah," she breathes. You're no good with putting feelings into words, so this will have to suffice; with Theresa, you're sure she understands. Unhooking your arms from around her, you smooth your hands up her legs, under the light fabric of her dress.

Theresa is soft, under you; you straddle her lap, sitting up on your knees to kiss along the line of her jaw and finally to meet her lips. If it's for her, maybe you can believe that there's something about you worthy of being loved; for her, you would do anything.

She knows you well, and knows that you like guidance, in being nervous about reading people properly. Murmurs "ah, there, like that—" and "undress me more, please," and you follow her every request, until you are skin against skin. And embellish a little—rolling the soft peaks of each breast between your fingers, until she gasps against your shoulder.

Whatever you're... doing with Kal'tsit hasn't yet come up, though you're sure Theresa knows, in her way. It's not like this at all with her, not soft or gentle, but somehow it's something you keep feeling like you need, regardless. Here, though—you can be each others' safety, for the moment.

You skate one hand down her abdomen, and take her cock in hand, brushing up and down the shaft, circling the head with your thumb. "Please," she says, hips twitching upward against your hand, and you raise yourself up on your knees to fit yourself against her, taking her into you, slowly, achingly.

The two of you rock together; she grinds deeper into you with her length, leaving the both of you breathless. It's not an easy fit, but you want to feel as much of her as you can, scrambling to taste her lips and touch every inch of her skin.

Her fingers trace the Oripathy striation across your chest with a delicate care that for once doesn't make you revile your own traitorous body. You hold her, through her shuddering climax; she kindly doesn't comment on how you sob a little through yours.

When you leave here (when you wake), you'll have to face what you've done and what you have yet to do. But for a moment, you can think of this as something that might be home; something that might be yours.

At least you can say that somehow, your sleep was restful, confusing as your dreams were—because you're awoken by all the internal lights flashing red, and emergency alarms going off.²²

You roll off your bed sideways, cursing, and scramble for your comm;²³ the screen is covered in alerts, which you stare at fuzzily for a moment until the screen is overlaid with the incoming call alert—it's Amiya, marked urgent.

"Doctor," she says, sounding surprisingly level given the everything. "I'm glad I was able to reach you finally—"²⁴

And then she tells you what's going on.

And really, at this point, all you can muster is:

"Oh. Okay."

[22] This causes you to sit bolt upright and bang your head on the slightly lower overhang on one end of the bed, which is a reminder to not fall asleep face-down in the reverse direction.

[23] For some reason it ended up on the floor, half-shuffled under a pile of clothes. This is, at least, incentive to actually wake up.

[24] There's a pause. You realize that for once, you don't feel like the bottom is about to drop out of your stomach; it's already as low as it can go. Great! You did it! You solved anxiety!

Clean Radio Edit Summary

Dr. Lau is having a difficult time dealing with the strain of command; Theresa says she pushes herself too hard on her account.
Theresa notes that Dr. Lau and Kal'tsit are similar—they both care a lot, it's just that they show it in different ways, and that's what she loves about both of them.
Theresa mentions that she's always felt out of place as well, and realized that she'd just have to make a home for herself; she hopes that maybe it can be a home for Kal'tsit, who has been rootless for so long, and also for Dr. Lau, who has difficulty making herself understood.
Theresa is a trans woman.