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Chapter VI, Midnight Feature

> "Anon?" >Whitney's right eye blinks open and flickers like a kerosene lamp in the darkness. > "Anon, you awake?" > You might have been half-way to sleep, but you doubt it would have paid off anyway. You've all but given up on that. There's still a hint of adrenaline residue in your blood, and it's been tickling your nerves and waking you every time you get close. You aren't sure how long you've been lying there, but it feels like weeks, and you don't have anything to show for it but a series of strange and flighty dreams. >Your eyes creak open the rest of the way. A dense but penetrable darkness greets you, its thickest regions warded to the corners of the room by the faint glow of the warmly-shaded icing lights filtering through the fog on the porthole. Rain still patters on the envelope, but only faintly. You can scarcely hear it for the omnipresent drone. > "Yeah, Kid. I'm awake. What's up?" >Her other eye flickers open and stares thoughtfully up at the ceiling. > "I 'dunno. I just--," >She falters. > "Just what? Can't sleep?" >She nods sleepily and turns her head to you. > "Not for shit. Did a minute, but it didn't last. You neither, though, huh?" > "No." > "How's your bruise?" >It actually hadn't been too bad until she'd reminded you of it, at least so long as you didn't try to sleep on your stomach. The tender ache doesn't waste any time working its way back through your ribs now that you're thinking about it again. >Of course you'd be dead if the railing hadn't caught the bullet, so it's not like you can complain. > "Fucking sucks. How's your shoulder?" >Her cot creaks and whimpers as she shifts onto her side and tugs at the collar of her nightshirt. > "Looks like shit, but fur always makes gashes look like shit unless you do the whole shave-and-bandage thing, and fuck that. Don't hurt that bad though, not since I doused it in alcohol. Shirt's ruined." >There's something curt and measured about her manner. You wouldn't say you know her well enough to read her, even if you could make out her ears and whiskers in the darkness, but you do get the impression she's avoiding something. You consider leaving the issue, but your curiosity gets the better of you. > "If it ain't the pain, what's keeping you up?" >She sighs through her teeth. > "I--" >Her head falls back to her pillow and she buries her muzzle into the fabric. > "It ain't your problem, Cap'n. I can handle myself. I'm fine; I promise." >Your heart twitches empathetically. The back of your mind finishes shuffling ideas and issues its prediction. > "You, uh..., you ain't seen someone killed before, have you Kid?" >She winces, the shimmer on her eyes blinking out as she shuts them. > "Dead, yeah. Killed, no. Just keep thinkin' about him is all. But it ain't your problem. I'll be fine in the morning; I can handle it." >Your heart twitches again, seizing on the image of that guy you saw stabbed in the alleyway by the docks when you were fifteen. You sit up on the edge of your bed. >The air's grown brisk and clammy overnight, and it makes short work of your boxers and nightshirt. You can't help shivering a little. > "That's not nothing. Come on, we're in this together; tell me what's up. I could help. Really." >She shakes her head. > "I appreciate you lookin' out for me, but I'll get over it. Really." >Part of you wants to listen to her, but your heart isn't about to let that happen. Yawning, you roll to your feet and sit on the edge of her bed instead. > "Kid...." > She leaves her muzzle buried. > "What happened to my rack being my space, huh?" >A faint whimper stains the venom in her voice. > "Give it a rest." >You set your hand on her shoulder; she groans under her breath. > "That's sweet of you, Cap'n, but I'm telling you I'm fine. Just a hell of a first day, you know? Like you said?" >Her voice cracks a little at the end. You sigh and scratch at her fur a little. > "Well this ain't my first time, but my first time stuck with me a long time too. It's okay for it to bother you; it'd bother anyone." > "Yeah? Well then it bothers me. So what? Leave me alone." >Those last three words actually sting a little, but you keep scratching. > "Kid, in our line of work I'd wager this ain't going to be the last time either of us faces this sort of thing. At this rate it ain't likely the last time this voyage. It's stressful shit, and it ain't easy for anyone, but you don't 'gotta deal with it alone. Got it?" >She flops onto her back. > "Guess they aren't kiddin' about humans not being too good about midin' their own fuckin' business." >That stings pretty good too, especially because it's clear from her voice that she's serious. >And shit, maybe you should listen. >Maybe it isn't any of your business. >But she's looking at you now, and it's clear she's upset. She's fighting, and fighting valiantly, but the corners of her eyes glisten with tears. >And she's a stupid kid who doesn't know what she got herself into. >And you're supposed to help, right? >Like a proper partner? A proper friend? >She'd have been there for you, wouldn't she? >You'd have liked to think so. >You swear under your breath and take hold of her paw, but she swats you away. > "I said I can fucking handle it! Call me Kid all you want, but I ain't 'gonna let you treat me like one. This is my problem, and I'm sorry I fucking mentioned it. Maybe I'm new at this, but I'm your partner, and not your fucking charge. Leave me alone." >Those words again. >Leave me alone. >Her voice snaps again, but it doesn't do much to dull their edge. >There's something familiar about them. >You back off and let your hand fall into your lap instead.

>You know that phrase. It hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, but like the dance it takes you a second to place it: >That evening watching the baseball game your Freshman year of high school, when you'd finally worked up the courage to ask Sarah, whom you'd thought a friend, to Homecoming, but she was sitting with some jock, and you'd only gotten as far as approaching before she drove you away. >Leave me alone. >Like she'd never even seen you before. >Yeah, you remembered this. >Rejection. >Rejection like the first time. >It hurts bad enough to give you pause. >Enough to make you swallow and choke a little on the word "Sorry". >Almost enough to turn and go, but something stops you. >For a moment you think it's courage or a sense of responsibility, but it turns out you can't take the credit. >Whitney's just got your hand pinned. >She's sitting up now, blankets pulled up around the waist of her baggy nightshirt and eyes dull in the shadows. >She doesn't look nearly so rugged without all the thick flannel and the gun on her hip, but her fur seems to do a decent job of keeping her from shivering. She's got your hand pinned in one paw and her forehead resting on the other. >The anger in her seems to flicker and die. A heavy silence settles for a few long seconds, then she curses some weird Avalonian phrase you don't understand. > "I--, I didn't fucking mean that. You're just tryin' to help, and it ain't like you're wrong either. I don't have a lot of practice gettin' looked after, is all. Ain't ever been one to ask for help, and I ain't used to being a burden. I fucking hate it, and I snapped. But that's not your fault. Ain't snapped like that in a real long time; 'Dunno what happened." >Shame leaks into her voice as she speaks. She hangs her head and stares at the floor, ears flattening. > "It's okay, Whitney." > "No it ain't. I'm laying here tryin' not to be a burden, and I'm making a goddamn scene instead. Turns out I'm pretty good at being childish when I'm tryin' not to be. Usually pretty good at stopping myself these days. Least I thought so." >She shudders and loosens her grip on you. You find yourself taking hold of her paw again. > "You're just stressed." > "That ain't an excuse." > "No, but it's an explanation." >That seems to satisfy her. She sighs and falls back against the wall. >The truth is you really don't mind. Odds are you're going to embarrass yourself one of these days, and you're glad it was her turn first. >"Ain't like I'm perfect either," you add, seizing the opportunity to secure a little insurance for that eventuality, "Just so happens I've dealt with this particular thing before, and I reckon we ought to look out for each other. Got to fly together, after all, and that means we've got to trust each other, too. >She smiles weakly at that. > "Yeah, well, while we're not mentioning things about each other, could we not mention this? > "Sure, Ki--" >You stop yourself, probably a little too late. > "You'd probably rather I just called you Whitney, huh?" >She shrugs. > "If tonight's any indication, I could stand to get over myself. Call me whatever you want. But thanks. So are we going to play shrink, or what? Got one of those couches for me? What do you want to know?" >Now that she isn't fighting you, you aren't so certain anymore. You know what you want to tell her, but not much in between. You settle on the first thought that comes to mind. > "What is it you keep thinking about?" >She seems to give that some thought, shutting her eyes and squeezing your hand a little in the process. > "That it was real. It don't quite seem like it, but it was. The way he grabbed at the wound, how scared and hurt he looked, it was all so fucked up. I ain't a little kid; I know this shit goes on; I' known a long time. But it ain't like seeing it in a picture. He was like, a real person, you know? Like us." >She hangs on the last syllable for awhile, hunting words. > "I 'dunno. I'm talking nonsense, ain't I?" >You think you know what she's getting at, at least a little. > "It's not nonsense." >She squeezes you again. > "I mean, he probably had fucking dinner plans he was looking forward to when he got off watch. He was right fucking there, and then he was gone. Just like that. And someone did it to him, and we don't even know why." > "Yeah. Yeah, I get you." >She relaxes a little and settles some of her weight onto your shoulder. > "...and, and it's fucking selfish of me, and I swear I ain't a coward, but it could have been anyone, you know? You? Me? Fucking scary to think about, and every time I try to push it away it pops right back up. In that little I slept I had a fucking dream, n'...." >She swallows, trailing off. > "...but I'll be okay. I've got to be. Don't really know what you could say that would make it okay, but I guess I ought to thank you for tryin'. At least unless there's some kind of trick to it, but I don't reckon that's so. You do get used to it though, right?" >If there are any tricks, you sure as hell don't know them. > "I guess people just get used to it. Reckon we'll have to." >She cocks her head. > "You ain't used to it?" >God, you fucking wish. You suppose this is what it means to be the real deal, but shit, you could have died, and it would be a bold-faced lie to say you weren't thinking about it too. And maybe you've seen someone killed before, but you sure as fuck don't like to be reminded. >Besides, between the Captain's warning and the skirmish in the bay, your hopes for a peaceful voyage have been all but dashed. At this rate you might as well be shipping off to war. >That was fine when you were high on adrenaline, but that didn't last. >Reality had been setting in pretty hard since then, little tendrils of doubt and regret rising up from the darkness to probe you for weaknesses. >Maybe there's not much for you back home, but you'll be damned if you aren't already starting to miss that little seaside town. >And maybe you're not cut out for this after all. >You could have been a barnstormer, or joined the mail service. >You could be camping out under the stars right now, not a care in the world. >But no, you'd wanted to be a rugged hero, even though you knew it wouldn't be like the movies. So here you were. >But you were the real deal, and you could handle it, right? >Truth be told, it would probably be weighing on you a lot heavier if it weren't for her. >You realize you're leaning on her a little, too. >She must have noticed, because she turns to you again, concern in her eyes. > "What's the matter, Cap'n? Ain't what I said, is it?" > "No." >A flash of consideration crosses her face, then conviction replaces it. > "And it's your first voyage, same as mine?" > "Yeah." > "...you're scared, ain't 'ya, Cap'n?" >There's a grim certainty in her voice that seems to make it ring even truer than it might otherwise. > "Yeah." >To your surprise she actually seems to relax at that, and she slings her arm over your shoulder again. For a minute you get that warm feeling you did from the dance. > "Well, I don't reckon I could be a whole lot of comfort, but at least it's both of us, huh?" > "Yeah. And I appreciate it, Kid. Reckon we'll be okay so long as we stick together." > "Here's to trust, then." >For a second you think she's going to go for the flask again, but she offers you her other paw instead, and you shake. >Her grip isn't as firm and certain as it was that morning, but it doesn't seem any less ernest.

>Silence falls. The two of you stare out the window a while, watching the droplets of dew creep across the glass and letting the drone of propellers wash over and drown you. She leaves her arm where it is, her warmth driving away the worst of the dampened air. Your nose seizes up a little over having her so close, but you don't pay it any mind. >In time her ears and whiskers sag, and for a moment she seems to sleep, but then she jolts awake again and startles you out of your trance. >She swears under her breath and yawns again. > "Hey, Cap'n?" > "What's up?" > "If we're stuck sitting up together, you want to like, watch a movie or something? Ya 'know, to get our minds off it?" >The waver in her voice almost makes it sound like she's asking you to prom. But fucking hell, that idea sounds wonderful. If only you were magic. > "How do you reckon we do that?" >She smiles, and for once it doesn't look quite so forced. > "Just a sec." >She shuffles the blanket off and rolls out of bed. >You can't help noticing she doesn't have a whole lot on under that shirt, and make a point of glancing away while she rifles through her bag. >When she emerges, it's with an intricate brass instrument a little bigger than a typewriter. > "The fuck is that thing?" >She sets it delicately onto the bed and starts fiddling with dials, looking more than a little self-satisfied as she works. > "Projector." >Holy shit, is she serious? You've never seen a projector that wasn't taller than you were. You knew Avalon made some pretty weird shit; they were a favorite subject of speculation in Popular Mechanics magazines, but you tended not to put much stock in the claims. They'd famously met Europa's rifled muskets with repeating arms in their brief war a century before, but little was known for certain about what they'd been up to since. >Projectors, evidently. Even if such a device had existed in the Eastern Union you reckon it would have cost more than a house, but here it was in front of you. >But come on, it can't really be a full projector, right? Where would it even keep the film? >You lean in to inspect it more closely, and Whitney whips out a slender knife. > "Hey Cap'n, you weren't using the reading light on the table under the window, were 'ya?" >The fuck? You furrow your brow, though you feel a lot better now that her voice isn't wavering so bad. > "No, why?" > "Perfect." >She reaches between her rack and the wall and retrieves a slender wire. Then she loops it in her fist and cuts it with a firm, sudden jerk. >Guess you won't be using that light later either. You resume your inspection while she whittles away at the jacketing around the copper. >You still aren't seeing any film reels, but you do find what you're pretty sure is the object end of the device. >At least you think those are lenses; for some reason there's three of the fuckers, and they're arranged in a compact triangle. They're also some of the smallest lenses you've ever seen. >Suddenly Whitney interrupts your marveling. > "Might not want to look right at that, Cap'n. I'd also appreciate it if you didn't fog the lenses." >You glance up to see she's braided the wire with another, somewhat thinner one that leads into a series of vacuum tubes. It's a pretty clean job, too, or at least you think so. You can make sense of the magnetos in your engines, but beyond that electricity may as well be magic as far as you're concerned. > "Sorry." >She shrugs and goes back to work, slotting a cable from the projector into the tube assembly with an odd-looking plug. > "How far away do you reckon that far wall is, Cap'n?" >She gestures back toward your rack. > "I 'dunno. Nine feet?" > "Can I, uh, get that in DeciTails?" > "Huh?" > "Yeah, didn't think so." >She tabulates some quick math on her fingers, then works a scroll wheel on the machine. > "Alright, let's see how bad we screwed that measurement up. Could you flip the switch for that light for me?" >You stop yourself a little short of doing so. > "You sure that contraption ain't 'gonna explode, Kid?" > "That's what the tubes are for. Rectifier and transformer." >You have no idea what those things are. You try to keep from making that overtly obvious, but she doesn't seem to have much trouble reading your face. > "Just trust me, Cap'n. Shook on it, didn't we?" >You had been thinking more along the lines of watching each other's back and not keeping too many secrets as opposed to whatever this Tesla shit was. At least she's jacketed the copper she exposed with a bundle of tape. You're not sure how much that helps, but it does make you feel better. > "Aw come on, Cap'n. We were in a gunfight, this ain't nothin'. It won't bite, I promise." >There's a hint of that whimper again. You force back your cautious mind and bury it. She needs this. > "And you done this before?" > "Plenty." >You sigh. > "Alright." >The switch snaps under your finger and the transformer tubes slowly come to life with a dim copper glow. >So far you haven't heard any bangs or smelled any fire. You sit down beside Whitney again, and she flips a toggle on the machine. >A low whir starts, slowly at first, and then faster. The base of the device issues a series of squeaks and whimpers and then a high-pitched whine, and suddenly the far wall sputters to life with a hazy, distorted glow. Ripples of static march across it in narrow rows, and then suddenly they snap together and-- >Holy fuck, it's in color! > "Mhmm," Whitney confirms, suggesting you'd made that exclamation out loud, "well, sorta. The colors are pretty fucked up, so either you suck at estimation or I suck at math. Just a sec." >It actually takes you a second to notice what she's talking about, but you start to see it as you stare. The colors are washed out and stained with red, green, and blue ghosted outlines, as is the screen itself. >She fiddles with the dial a little more though, and the ghosts slide together and sharpen up into a logo. >Antex Thermionics. >Port Dyson, Avalon. >Gold lettering on a teal and black seal. >Holy shit it's vivid. >You'd heard about experiments with color in moving pictures, but you'd always assumed it was just a novelty and doubted it would catch on even if it could be made to work reliably. >The image jumps and shifts to to a watercolor painting. >Yeah, color is definitely not just a fucking meme. This thing could produce an entire movie like this? You could get very used to that. > "What do you want to watch, Anon? Got a few you might recognize, but you guys don't record in color. We've colorized a few, but they don't look nearly as good as the real thing." > "Mostly westerns on both counts, I take it?" >She smiles sheepishly. > "All the hollywood movies, and about a third of the Avalonian ones. Got to imagine it'd be pretty weird for a union guy to see a western with anthro actors shot in Avalon though. We're used to it, but I won't make you." >Actually, you're rather curious now that she mentions it. Not much about Avalon makes it across the ocean. Seeing one of their movies would be a hell of a thing, especially if it meant to depict you. > "It's fine. Just put on your favorite; I trust you." >She gives you a skeptical look, face half-lit in the glow from the projector. > "Really?" > "Shook on it, didn't we?" >Her ears flick nervously, but she's grinning. >"Okay. You don't got to like it though; You want somethin' else, you tell me. Might have to watch it in black and white, is all." > "I'm sure it'll be fine, least so long as your taste in movies is better than your impulse control." >She narrows her eyes and dramatizes a snarl. > "Fuck you, Cap'n."

>After a minute or two of rifling she emerges with a slender, gray box. >You can't make out its features in the darkness, but if that's a film reel somehow, it's fucking tiny. >No bigger than a book. >Whitney fiddles with it for a minute, then with something on the projector. The latter spits out a cash register sort of mechanism with a ringing sound to match, and then swallows the gray box thing whole. >You give up the last bit of hope you had for understanding what the fuck is going on here. Whitney seems to notice, and, to your annoyance, take a good deal of pleasure in noticing. > "Magnetic tape," she chirps, "Ain't an engineer, but basically they print the tape with instructions that tell the projector how to draw the images instead of the actual images. Guess you can fit a lot more instructions than you can pictures. Ain't 'gonna lie, that don't make a lick of sense to me, but...." >The projection ripples again, then refreshes to a slow pan across a dry-looking expanse of desert. In full motherfucking color. Holy hell if Popular Mechanics could get their hands on this thing. > "...pretty neat, huh? They only came out a couple years ago. Probably spent more than I should snapping one up, but here we are. Reckon if anything was going to vindicate this purchase, it'd be tonight." >She shifts a little as the title and credits roll, making a show of finding space for her tail but edging up to you in the process. >The Sheriff Marty Wales > Starring Josey Robins >You don't recognize any other names, not that that's surprising.

>It's a decent movie, actually, though she's right about the actors being a bit bizarre. Now and again the backgrounds get a little obvious too, but you can overlook that. It's not like shooting on-site would have been an option. >The content itself isn't so far removed from a hollywood production as you were expecting. >Maybe a little cheezier in places, but in others it might actually be more serious. Avalon doesn't skimp on themes regarding loyalty and betrayal. It seems they have a bit more of a stomach for violence, too. >Whitney actually looks away once or twice. You suppose that adds up, but she still seems to take exceptional zeal in the revenge scenes. >The story, close as you can tell, follows the travels of the eponymous sheriff and the Cherokee partner he picks up along the way. >The latter is portrayed by some sort of hyena. You're not sure if that's racist. >It's engaging enough, but it does drag on awhile. By the top of the second hour you're fading. >It seems like Whitney might be too. >At some point she'd inched closer to you again, or maybe it was you that had done it. >You're resting heavily on each other now and the blanket is pulled over and around the both of you. >It might have been a little awkward had the day been better, or if you weren't so goddamn tired, but as it was they couldn't have paid you enough to move. >She's warm and soft, and you'll be damned if she doesn't make you feel secure, >If she doesn't make you feel like you belong. >You ain't belonged in a very long time.

>Whitney's asleep by the beginning of the last act. >Josey Robins, or whatever his character's name was, is helping his family defend their homestead with a pair of six-guns. >Well, it ain't really his family. They met on the road. He saved someone's life; someone saved his, and as they went on, they sort of adopted each other. >Something about it makes a lot of sense to you. You reckon you might have been able to place it if you weren't all but asleep yourself. >But it feels correct, and only more so each time he puts a bullet through the head of someone who sought to rend them apart. >And you'll be damned if your arm hasn't found its way around Whitney's waist, and her head onto your shoulder. > And if it doesn't feel pretty correct, too. >You could be like them, couldn't you? >A sort of family? >You ain't ever really had a family. >Didn't really think about it much either, at least not 'till now. >You hadn't thought you needed one, but what if you were wrong?

>Then the screen flashes and the audio pops, hisses and dies. >The change in lighting shatters your trance. For a few seconds you try to cling to the splinters, but they float away before you can get a grip on them and melt into the static on the screen. >The fuck had you been on about, anyway? >Some sort of sappy shit you don't quite remember. >Not that it seemed wrong; it didn't. >Just not so profound as it had when half your mind was sleeping. >You shake some of the mist from your eyes and rub at your forehead with the ball of your hand. >Your ribs ache, your head aches. Your eyes ache. Your arms ache. >Fuck you, you're tired. >At least now you might have a shot at sleeping. >Whitney's passed out on you shoulder, snoring quietly. >Her ears are resting and her tail is still. Her muzzle hangs open a little, lips parted along a shallow, contented smile. >Poor kid deserves it; she's been through a lot today. >You both have. >She plays tough, but you know the truth. >Christ do you know the truth. >And you know you feel better with her there beside you, but you can't stay forever. >You give her waist one last reassuring squeeze and set about planning your escape. >This is her rack, after all. >Her space. >And as much as the back of your mind is screaming at you to stay, you don't belong here.

>But she'd sleep better if you stayed, wouldn't she? >You know you would. >She's right, though, even if she apologized. You're her partner. You owe her a little respect. >So you lean forward and guess at the switch that turns the projector off, then shift her weight to your arm and lie her down as gently as you can. She shifts a little, but doesn't wake. >A bittersweet vacuum seems to open up between you as you let her go. >It tugs at your shirt as you sit up. >Oh yeah, the blankets. It's fucking cold out here. >You wouldn't be overstepping your boundaries to tuck her in, would you? >She must be cold. You're fucking freezing. >So you throw the blankets over her, probably with a bit more precision and delicacy than you meant to. >Trouble is, now you're close again, and the tug is even stronger. >Your cold, dark rack sulks in the far corner, looking almost impossibly far away. >You could slip under the blankets yourself, you know? Just for a little while? >It looks awfully warm and comfortable. >The closer you get, the more the feeling tugs at you. >It tugs until you collapse and slide in beside her, and warmth washes over you like a tidal wave. >It just feels so fucking right. With your back to hers, it feels like the two of you are untouchable. >You could take on the world pressed together like that. >It might be difficult; it might be frightening, but if you were scared all you had to do was press a little closer. >And so long as you fought, you'd never end up like that poor bastard in the cargo bay. >Maybe she was a stupid kid. Maybe she didn't know what she'd gotten herself into. And maybe you were projecting more than a little. But now you had each other, and whatever happened, it would be okay.

>...you should go to bed. >But what if you didn't? >What if you stayed right where you were? >What if you just slept? >Here. >With her? >What if you belonged? >You try to give that fair consideration, but you don't get very far before the warmth and the sleepy drone of the propellers crawl up and swallow you.