Phia's Fragile and Fantastic Fingers || ONC 2023

Robo-Raptors and Rivals

I don't sleep. I work. I'm going to find Penelope, whether Mercy and John believe me and help, or not. I check my work, and read the reports I managed to squirrel away, and I scribble, page after page on pristine pink sheets. My fingers take over for a time, ticking strange symbols in the margins or furiously writing line after line before I painfully pull my attention back to Mercy's tablet.

I drift off at some point, but it's a coughing sputtering sleep that reminds me of gritty protein shakes. It's thin and leaves me with sand in my eyes and a dull pulsing at my temple.

With the first rays of light I'm already sitting up, looking over my notes.

There are a few repeating symbols. It could be helpful if I knew what they meant, but my fingers won't translate and I can't read gibberish.

"What does it meannn?" I whisper to myself. Then again to my fingers.

Wait. They say.

"It'll become obvious," I mumble to myself.

Mercy gets out of bed with a furtive glance my way. I fiddle with the sticky skin on my heeling fingers and hope they'll say something more.

23 b230 n2i3 203. It's repetitive nonsense that I whisper to myself as Mercy picks a shirt color from her uniform stash and throws on jeans. She works on her hair and stalls. Then stalls some more. I know she's waiting for me.

"It's seven thirty," she says when she can't find anything else to fake-occupy her time. Her voice is morning-groggy.

"Yeah," I agree vaguely.

"You should get dressed, and come to breakfast with me," she prompts.

I want to keep digging, but I'm out of info, and breakfast does make a strange sort of sense. Maybe taking a break from looking at the notes will give me some answers. It's like staring at a puzzle. If I look too hard at the pieces I'll never see the full picture.

I crawl out of bed and walk to the closet. It's a mess, but mostly in my section. I dig around in piles and half closed drawers for a bra and a clean shirt and pants. I go for leggings. I can't fathom jeans today, and anyone who tries to argue with me about professionalism and uniforms can suck it.

Mercy is smiling at me when I finally get dressed. It feels patronizing, like I'm a toddler who just picked out my first outfit.

"Let's go to breakfast," I say, pushing past her and heading to the door.

"Shoes," she reminds me.

I find my rattiest pair of crocks.

I do breakfast like a good girl, but I put my data mag on my school tablet and only pretend to do pre cal. I mumble away lunch, and training, and dinner. My brain spins like the blades of a black hawk helicopter, fast and precise. I'm finding Penelope.

I'm finding her.

It goes like this, in a blur that lasts longer than a day. Maybe two. It's Thursday at lunch before something rattles the bars of my thoughtful solitude.

"So what's going on?" Casey Moore's voice is like silk shot from a pop gun. She slips into a chair across from me. She's not in a uniform shirt, or she is but she's ripped off the collar and modified it so it's practically sleeveless. She knows she's hot.

"Um. I think it's Hoa's birthday?" I say. I'm not sure what she's referring to and Hoa's birthday cake sitting limply on my plate is the only think I can think of.

"Noooo," Casey says low and slow. "I mean why did your team pass up the Raptor Case?"

"We did what?" We've been off and on tracking the Robo-Raptor team for a year and a half. We got close in Toronto last year, but three of their people snuck off. We keep squishing pieces of the team only to have them crop back up somewhere else. They're a pain in the ass, but I know we didn't give up the case.