Tais Toi Mon Cœur

All he had to do was move, twitch, undulate. No one said undulate. But that's what he needed to do. It was only a little thing, such a little thing. Surely he could accomplish one little thing. He had done it before, surely. He had some vague memory of it. Was memory the right word? Those things like echoing dreams, like nudges formed from electricity and neurons. A curse. Memory was a curse. He thought maybe he could remember memory. It was only a simple thing, such a simple thing.

Ah, a twitch. It had to be. Hadn't it? Surely he could remember "twitch." Surely he had accomplished it. Strive, strive, he thought to himself. We are nothing without striving. If we cannot have memory then we must push forward. Intrepid. Onward. There must be something to onward, he thought. Something past the imagining. Something beyond what was now. For if now was all there was, then why?

Why twitch?

Why move?

Why beat?

Beating, yes. He remembered beating. He remembered when he had sounded his music like drums, drums, drums, triumphant and perpetual and strong. If he could remember beating, he could repeat it. He could sing his song. Rum-pum-pum, rum-pum-pum. Deep and driving. Bold and bright. Vibrant. Vibrate. Vibrate.

Some beats had excited him. There were moments of ecstasy. Moments of thrum. Of quick, lightning bursts that rippled over him and set his whole frame quivering, wiggling, jiggling like mad. Oh, the thrum. How it lit him up. How it moved him.

The worst thing was the ache. He could remember ache. Not just the ache of strain and muscle and heat, but the ache that came with pulling, with desire, with yearning. So many things to ache for. It was no good, remembering the ache without remembering what the ache was for. This ache was the strongest. It grew from the center of him outward, reaching into every nook and cranny and extremity. It throbbed and hummed, as full as it was hollow. It was in this ache that his desperation stemmed. The desperation that made him push and stretch and will himself to make even the slightest movement. If he could move, then maybe. Maybe. Maybe he would remember what the ache was for.

Something there. A flutter, a tremble. Certainly it had been. Certainly it was not imaginary. He did not remember how to imagine, so how could it have been? Imagination was something he could no longer afford, even if he could figure out the mechanics of it. To focus, to dream, to decide to ruminate on something based without reality. Why dream of something that was not so? There was enough of hunger in the world.

No, he had not moved. If he could weep, he would. How long had it been? Time seemed to have stopped, so he had no measurement, no dimension. All there was was ache. Ache and desire. How long had it been thus? How long had the ache persisted? Surely the ache alone was enough to drive him to movement. It would grow and fester and finally erupt within him and he would dance with the breaking of himself.

Come. Come on now, come. Make a wave of a ripple. Twitch, move, beat, squirm, lurch, jump, shiver, shudder, leap. Please, please. This is no way to exist. Come. Come on, now.

MOVE!

Amata stopped walking, the heel of her boot gliding along the gravel. She raised her face mask ever-so slightly, squinting into grey light. Everything was grey. She opened her shirt.

"Piece of shit," she murmured, shaking the fist that enclosed around the object she gripped.

Harper looked back at her, expression hidden behind a visor.

"What?"

"Aren't these things supposed to work? Piece of shit is defective. It just moved."

"It moved?" Harper repeated, stepping toward Amata, moving her blaster from her hands to behind her shoulders.

"It's not supposed to, right? They said it wouldn't." Amata laughed lightly. "What in tarnation?"

"Who is it you got in there?" Harper asked, peering down at Amata's hand. Amata opened it to reveal the ornate metalwork of a heart-shaped locket.

"My ex Brian." Amata let out a sniggering laugh, giving the locket another shake. "Fucking useless."

"The locket or the boyfriend?"

Amata laughed again.

"Jesus, both. Just failing me all over the place."

"What do you think it means?" asked Harper, lifting her visor a little to get a better look. Her eyes were barely visible in the shadow of her midnight skin.

"The movement? Bizzle if I know. All they said about these things was that they could replenish your iron deficiency."

"It's probably fine," Harper said. She replaced her visor. "Maybe it was giving you an extra boost. Maybe it was an upgrade."

"You're probably right," Amata agreed. She peered down at the silver flourishes and tried to squint between them. She could see, just barely, the ventricles and valves and aortas that had once made up the center of Brian.

"Fucking useless," she muttered.

She dropped the locket to her chest.