Page 216 of Light Leech

“Halt,” the therapist said. His hands–still human in appearance–held Naoma’s shoulders while the tentacles continued their work. Had they not been toying with one of the most fragile components of the human body, I would have pounced on him and torn him into flesh and metal fragments.

Naoma’s frightened eyes rolled back into her skull.

It took everything for me to choose logic over rage and not attack the therapist.

“Good,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“You to leave. Let me do my work.”

“Who do you work for? Who are you selling her data to?”

“Come on, Petya. You’re not that naive.”

Zhu what the zeg is going on?

The ghost swine did not answer, though I felt his presence near.

It took every ounce of will for me to not scream at him. One misstep could end her. “Please. Let her go, and we’ll talk.”

“Would you like to offer yourself in her place?”

I hesitated. Before I could decide, Naoma’s eyes glowed white. The light was not from her sclera, but from something deep within. Not a machine, but a spirit. Her brows tensed and her mouth turned from its agape and vulnerable shape to an angered cry.

The therapist shrieked, his voice a mixture of man and mechanism.

Naoma cried out, cathartic rage expelling the therapist from her head as if she was too hot to touch.

She looked at me, the glow fading from her eyes, then she ran to my side.

I had questions aplenty but could not sit to discuss them while the therapist stared at me. He had collected himself, though not without the occasional twitch. His mouth had not reformed and the metallic tentacles moved, hungry for another feeding.

My Bite reserve was low. As far as I could tell, his flayed mouth possessed no real teeth.

He did not speak nor did he move from his hunched stance.

I spared Naoma a glance, relieved to see that she stood at my side but feared what that thing had done to her.

My focus on her wavered. It was not that I wanted to look at the horrific therapist, but I found myself longing for his gaze. It was not a desire birthed from defense or my survival instincts, but a genuine need to meet his eyes. To watch those metallic tentacles and understand their dance.

Two thought streams warred in my mind. One for survival, screaming that this was a repeat of the Cuttles. The other told me that need was not the same desire. The Cuttles called for love, obeisance, and devotion. This called for my attention, brief though it was, to cast my mind elsewhere.

I was at home. I had a home. Not an apartment, but a home owned by the wealthy of myth.

I sat with a book in my hand, one of the thick ones I wanted to have the time for, looking up to the person in the chair across from me. White light lit the room. I was content without the vanity of violet or even blue.

“Is everything alright?” she asked. Seeing her face, recognition dispelled my amnesia. This was my wife. Zeg, this was Naoma. She held an infant in her arms. When the child started to cry, she rocked it back into a blissful sleep. Not it. She.

Syla. That was her name. I knew it because I gave it to her.

“Pet?” Naoma asked. She was older though far from wrinkled. Her hair was black. Any makeup she had was free of light. She wore a red robe, free of any electronics or light.

“Yeah,” I said, laughing in relief. Zeg, what did I do to deserve this life?

The years played through my mind. Our wedding. Traveling together. The word “Gongtide” came to my mind, yet it carried no meaning.

Remnants of a barbaric hunger tickled the back of my mind, yet the need to feed had diminished. Why did this hunger leave an ache that could never be satiated?