Natural Fucking Magnetism
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The memory was 3:12 AM, sometime in May of 2014. Sara, still dressed like a rebellious Catholic schoolgirl, was tangled in a blanket with Jack, waiting for him to make a move and retroactively justify her sleep schedule. The only source of light was the TV, silently playing some late-night talk show. V and Izzy had already left.

The boundary between evening and late-night used to be so firm. Sara remembered that peculiar childhood fear of staying up past midnight, of stumbling into the next day and losing her chance to rest. She envisioned impossible hypnagogic apocalyptica, a sky that flipped and exploded through the kitchen window, visions spared only by the grace of sleep. Even as fear gave way to diligence and midnight gave way to 1, 2, 3, Sara had not questioned the underlying assumption of some fundamental shift; if not for Jason, would she have taken that assumption to her grave?

But sleep was overrated. Sara had work to be doing, interest to pay down.

Her fingers made their way up to Jack's short hair. She wondered if he ever felt it when she pulled, or if it was merely an act. Sara wondered if it was all an act. The thought of pulling him into another lay was as tempting as the prospect of kicking him out of the apartment altogether.

The memory was 3:13 AM, and she was already ready to burn her bridges. Hateful Mips, the sardonic punk in her head who provided the lyrics to her band's angriest songs, had it all planned out: Fuck you for making me lose sight of freedom. I never want to see you again.

Translated by Sara: "I'm scared."

Jack stirred, turned his head to look up at Sara. She couldn't read his expression, but it was easy to forget that by his own admission, Jack did not have feelings. "Yeah?"

"I'm … I'm scared I'm never gonna get out of…"

Cue Babylon: Shut up. Enough of the pity-me bullshit.

Sara's other arm pulled Jack in. She wondered, idly, if there might ever be a day where she'd hug him and feel only his cephalopodic innards. Ribs and spine would do for now — and he had more than enough soft tissue to go around.

The memory was 3:14 AM, and she could pretend it was a pleasant one.


Jack had practiced his negative affirmations, today. It went like this: Jack pretends to wake up, slips into whoever's bathroom, locks the door, sheds his skinsuit, looks in the mirror, and says everything he doesn't like about what he sees. You are a monster. You will always be a monster. You will never atone for your sins. You are a broken, sniveling coward.

There was a new one, today: Sara knows you're a monster.

He'd had to take a moment to think after he'd said it, and that moment lingered on his way to the rail. So worried about her debt, Sara was too busy to study Daevite history in any detail; even if she knew, had she the emotional fortitude to accept the Jack of Spades was once Hgan the Scarlet? Every confession was a joke to her, to everyone. Not even Brad, who knew enough to exploit the Verdant Mage and keep his skin, seemed to grasp the reality of Jack's crimes.

But.

Jack had had fourteen thousand years to study the intricacies of the human body. The heart, breath, expressions, minute differences in muscle contractions were as plain to him as night and day.



Sara hated Jack.

She hated the way cigarette smell stuck to the clothes he left at her apartment. Sara would run her hands against the fabric, take it in her arms, imagine whichever partner struck her current fancy, and be pulled away from her fantasy by the scent. Only Jack smoked nicotine.

She hated his caution. Jack handled her like fragile china






If you're wondering who the self-insert is supposed to be, the answer is "yes".

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