Chapter Text
When morning becomes her, she stretches her limbs as far as they can extend. When morning becomes her, she recalls once more how awful it is for one to stay up all night and then wake with the sun. How could someone do that to themselves? When morning becomes her, limbs loose and mind functioning at half capacity, Gideon remembers something extremely vital to her existence: Harrowhark Nonagesimus is an evil stick person with no morals. Harrowhark Nonagesimus is a heartless little sponge at the bottom of the ocean, sucking the joy out of all the other fish in the water who just want to have a good time. Dr. Harrowhark Nonagesimus is now, most unfortunate of all these things, her boss.
Gideon wakes up, which becomes most unfortunate given the ache of her ribs and greets the day with a positive attitude.
“Fuck my fucking ugly little life.”
Food doesn’t sound appealing. She’d sooner plunge her blood sugar into the depths and pass out on the floors of the clinic for all to see, slobbering and crying about how she’s grumpy and hungry! Won’t happen, though. Can’t give Harrowhark the satisfaction. Gideon crosses over to the fridge, passing her closet’s tucked-away secrets and her silent but identifiable TV music, and greets whatever meal her food prep service had delivered. Not cooking has nothing to do with the blind thing. It has everything to do with the friend in her closet and the hideous city outside her window.
Harrow used to love Gideon’s cooking.
Ianthe says time and time again she’s going to try the service, but intead spends her time trying to bum meals off Gideon. Much like Harrow, Ianthe eats about half a meal a day and clogs her time up with her penchant for irritating people. They’d make a fascinating couple if Harrow would advance beyond the one-night stand part of their history. Ianthe is the best and worst part of Gideon’s life and daily happenings. In other words, today, a day without Ianthe, is going to bite.
Doesn’t help how itchy the back of the scrub shirt is. (Gideon had ripped off a tag and ruined the entire garment for herself.) She knows the outfit is monotone and unexciting, a uniformed prison fashion for everyone in the office to match cutely with. They’re all one cohesive unit, by Gideon’s understanding, and the idea of walking into that concept as the weird new guy is unflattering to say the least. To say the most, she wants to jump out the window and crush against the earth into a pile of gooey guts and blood and eyeballs.
The walk to the clinic takes longer thanks to the simple mistake of Gideon trying to go to the gym she co-runs and thinks back on that fun conversation with Ianthe before forcing herself in the other direction. Ianthe wasn’t mad. Wasn’t thrilled. She was neutral, and she’s so difficult to read at times Gideon decided to stand in the center of the office flat as a board, unsure what to say. She seemed happy enough. What she should be: ready to fight Harrow over interrupting the gym’s biggest asset. Totally Harrow’s fault Gideon never stepped up and started treating people in the gym. Nothing to do with Gideon. Has nothing to do with her refusing to treat people with her expensive doctorate.
Gideon is let into the office—why would Harrow trust her with a key? —by Dulcinea, that weight lifter in the wheelchair with awful cancer and more spirit than the most privileged person in Canaan. She’s excited to see Gideon here, and something about hearing that makes Gideon feel a little better about life, if only for a moment. In the next moment, Gideon remembers she’s the new kid in a school her parents are unfairly forcing her to attend. Then she thinks, Thank God I never had parents.
Dulcinea takes Gideon to a counter not too far from the front doors. The wheels of her chair creak slightly, echoing in Gideon’s ears when she’s placed at the counter of the wraparound desk. It starts attached to the wall, stretching to an open entry space where Dulcinea returns behind the desk. This is called morning huddle, Dulcinea tells her. One huddle before every shift, to discuss and resolve any potential problems before they arise. Gideon can think of a few right now.
Two more entities cross into the vicinity, comfortably taking their places at different spots on the counter. Something heavy hits the counter as the man talks endlessly, the other person listening along as another laptop is placed on the counter. The first is airy, working hard. Either the device is old, or the owner enjoys abusing technology. If Gideon’s laptop had horrendous fans screeching for dear life, she’d never be able to hear the spoken commands. Though, such a thing might be a blessing. The computer is set to speak so fast it often brings up confused questions from untrained ears.
She hears the other person say something, a couple words in contrast to the man. This person is short with her sentence, straight to the point. It’s not gossip. They’re already discussing a patient before the huddle has started.
“More on Thompson later,” the man says. The direction of his voice changes, growing louder. He’s heavy of breath, probably form talking his head off about Thompson. “Good morning, Dr. Nav. I’m Palamedes, the osteopathic doctor. This is Camilla to my right, our certified athletic trainer. I’ll try my best to help you get situated with all your patients today, but Cam will mostly be at your side.”
“Do you think they’ll like blind chiropractors?” Gideon asks. Palamedes is unsure how to respond. He could try throwing a girl a bone and laugh, or something.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. They’ll be confident once they know Harrowhark is the one who brought you in.” Oh, gross.
Clinking from a mile away. The beast has entered the dungeon. Harrowhark Nonagesimus marches down the hall, each of her necklaces arguing with one another underneath her two undershirts and her scrub top. She forms a layer of clothes to keep herself warm and to ignore the fact she’s probably anemic despite being hot to the touch. Something to do with being born in the fires of hell, probably. (Do stick people eat, or do they participate in photosynthesis?) There’s at least one necklace with a cross somewhere in all those layers, and the metal skeleton skull Gideon got her years ago. The others are a mystery. She stands with Gideon at the edge of the counter where the granite breaks off from the wall to create a walkway and is planning on settling here for the meeting. Gross.
Not hearing Palamedes with the grunt work, Harrow introduces Gideon. They went to school together. Harrow is a chiropractic orthopedist, and Nav is a chiropractic sports medicine diplomate. Gideon is here to help. Gideon will be the treating chiropractor. Gideon is the one in charge of care plans now. Oh Nav, I want you so bad, ohhhrr. Harrow is going to give her a tour of the different therapies in a few minutes, and Camilla is going to help her stick to existing care plans as well as recommend new ones. Gideon is a master certified personal trainer and should change physical therapy exercises as she sees fit. Gideon might as well kill Harrowhark dead and take the place over. And then Gideon realizes Cam is a certified athletic trainer and decides she’ll be doing nothing but signing notes and fucking off mentally.
Gideon learns a few important things: Palamedes, as a D.O., administers trigger point injections primarily. Handles allergy treatment in the office. Sports physicals, medical evaluations, and flu season fall under him as well. Camilla administers passive treatments as well as cupping, muscle scraping, dry needling, and active release therapy, which Gideon recalls being hard on the hands. Harrow would crush her own thumbs doing it. Dulcinea handles the bills and any piece of admin work needed around here. Harrow says nothing about herself, but Gideon imagines it involves a great amount of sulking and scouring at anyone who comes in here with a soul or a simple smile.
The thrilling tour takes place as huddle goes on, implying in the future Gideon can bum around and continue to ignore important patient information while everyone else deals with it. Harrow proves a solid career in navigation: she points to the rooms and explains what is where. Gideon makes eleven blind jokes.
“Camilla will handle direction. I assume you can see me with your comic book vision,” Harrow says, not understanding a damn thing about what she learned that night.
“I see the outlines of people and objects. Everything is the same, angry red fiery blob; I see a world on fire, Nonagesimus. I don’t see clearly, so don’t expect me to start making eye contact and handwriting perfect calligraphy.”
“You can distinguish the sounds later.”
“You are so accessibility friendly; did you know that?”
Harrow takes a breath, probably squints menacingly, then tries everything all over again. X-ray room. Water bed therapy room. Decompression machines. Room full of roller tables. Shockwave and ultrasound machines. Vibe plate. Dry needling room. Massage room, currently out of commission in favor of a massage therapist Harrow has yet to hire.
“We open in five minutes. Go familiarize yourself with the floor as well as the treatment rooms, if necessary. Camilla is going to take notes for you, or you can take them yourself. Your decision.”
“Oh wow, such freedom—”
“Lastly, your professionalism.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m working until you catch up on your notes. That’s what you emailed me—you emailed me, because you’re from the previous century—and that’s what we’re sticking to. Indentured servant no more after that. After that, you can go fuck yourself for all I care.”
“Hold that thought.”
“Are you serious?”
Harrow runs her bony fingers through the tresses of hair on Gideon’s head, getting stuck here and there with the thickness of the strands. Most of it gets flipped to one side, then the other, as if Harrow had never played with Gideon’s hair before. They’re strangers now, standing around the outside of a closet-sized business owner’s office. Harrow’s hands are warm.
Gideon asks, “Is now a good time, as my employer, to be notified that I am blind? Legally blind, for real. Don’t worry, I’m certified. I got it when I was about eleven. Can’t show you the certificate though, I’ve never really seen it. That’s a blind people joke, by the way.”
Hands stop. Harrow releases a massive huff from her lungs. “For goodness’s sake, Griddle—”
“Chiro license? Easy peasy. They told me what bones look like, and I think I got it. I think I do. You just keeping pushing until they scream or something, right?”
“Oh, how I wish you went mute instead.”
“Nonspeaking people are my natural enemy. They talk with their hands. That’s kind of offensive, you know? Like, seriously?”
“Would you be so kind as to get out of my office.”
“You’re the boss. Can’t wait to treat all your patients while you cower in a corner.” Gideon walks away right after that one, before Harrow can yell too loud. Just in time for the day’s first patient to waltz in through the door. Gideon passes them by, and the sound or sight of her mildly noticeable disorder is noted. Heart rate changes. They start asking Dulcinea questions.
Septimus doesn’t say much on the subject. Just regards Gideon as the new treating chiropractor, and as predicted they make a little breath about it before finishing check in. Nobody likes having a new doctor. If patients are running around actively looking for a new doctor, it’s their choice. Whether Harrow decided to tell everyone about the new change, Gideon is going to spend half the day proving herself. She and Harrow have the exact same degree, but it isn’t her name stapled all over the doors. She’s the new guy. The new guy is always fighting for recognition, doctorate or not.
With great frustration in her chest, Gideon admits, a minute into the first shift, she will never be Harrowhark around here. But she can sure try.
Again, they have the same degree. Gideon can’t decide if this guy is stuck on the fact she is in the room and Harrowhark isn’t, or the fact she’s totally blind. He thinks she can’t hear the frustrated huff exhaling from his lips when her fingers touch the braille keyboard of her personal computer. Gideon starts doing the same muscle testing routine she assumes Harrow performs—she’s meant to with all her one million years in school—and he seems to calm down. Again, they have the same degree. Same undergrad degree. Went to the same schools. Studied together. Lived together. Did much more together. One isn’t better than the other, except for the fact Gideon is one hundred percent better than Harrow. Dozens of personal training assessments won’t slow Gideon’s foggy vision down. They’ll enhance her, and Harrow can struggle to catch up.
At the end of the session, the guy manages to walk away alive and says nothing other than bidding Dulcinea a good day. She promises he isn’t the nicest one around here. Won’t even see Palamedes. Ten minutes pass and the real crowd starts rolling in. Camilla immediately takes on the role of traffic control and starts sending people on their way. Some go to Palamedes first. Some won’t see Gideon at all today, just medical. Few allergy-only clients, just for Palamedes. Doesn’t take more than a breath for Gideon’s three rooms to start filling up, and before she knows it Camilla is coming in and taking them out to the therapy rooms. Ten minutes per person, time starts flying by. Shift is over as quickly as it began. Gideon’s promised time to Harrow will be over before she knows it.
Though, she’ll admit, she missed practicing more than anything else.
Clinic clears out with the same speed. Palamedes and Camilla, leaving out the front door together, talking about another patient in great depth. Dulcinea bids Gideon a nice lunch before she disappears, too. Leaving Gideon and Harrow, alone in a gigantic clinic. Gideon, standing in the middle of the treating floor, and Harrow somewhere yammering frantically into a voice recorder. Inching closer, it sounds like Harrow has invented a new language. It’s as if someone set her on double speed and she decided to go four times faster instead. She’s finally become the hamster person she was born to be, and Gideon decides to burst into her office and scare the life out of her.
“Can I help you with something?” she asks, pretending she didn’t squeal or drop the recorder mid-sentence.
“It’s lunch time, Alvin. You can’t step away from the chipmunks for five minutes?”
“I have evaluations later.” Harrow’s heart rate starts to calm down, back to its already alarming resting rate. “Disability examinations. Do you remember those? They’re a little more complex than pushing a bar off your chest.”
“Dur, what does disability mean?” Harrow says nothing. “First shift went well, by the way. Hardly anyone was mad or confused by their consistent doctor suddenly bailing on them without warning. Oh wait!”
“I understand the frustration of losing one’s doctor. I understand they’re frustrated I’ve passed them off to a stranger. However, if our patients want this facility to continue to exist, they’ll have to see you. You have no idea how behind I am on notes, not to mention the difficulties of treating while doing examinations.”
“Daredevil sounds pretty chill suddenly, doesn’t it?” Again, Harrow says nothing. “Some lady said she likes me more because I don’t have face tattoos. I told her what yours meant. Then I told her I have tattoos too, and she shut up from there.”
“I never understood why you got the tattoos.”
“I’m not any less Māori than you are.”
“Can I ask where you found a patu?”
“Same person who taught me everything Daredevil knows. And no, I’m not sharing that info with you.”
Harrow’s hands are still now. “Will you ever share that information with me?”
“Probably not.”
“Does Tridentarius know?”
“No way.” Gideon says those words a little too quickly. “No, I don’t think she’d take it well. You’re the only nosy neighbor in my life; you’re the only one who knows.”
“Will you go out again?”
Gideon leans against the doorframe. “Probably.”
“I don’t understand you, Nav.”
“You did, once. A long time ago. I have to do this. Even if you tell everyone, I’ll still do it. You’ll just make it harder, but I can manage. I can manage anything despite you. See you next shift, bozo.”
-
Gideon enters the office, spacious and half-empty, save for the papers on her old desk, and stretches her arms out. Ianthe says nothing, probably never looked up. The bones of her neck make such an awful popping and crackling sound, something difficult to ignore with super-powered ears.
“I bought you that weird knock-off brand soda you can only find in the shady part of town!”
Ianthe doesn’t move. Gideon can imagine the bored expression on her face, gazing lifelessly into the computer screen without a single thought in her head. Except Ianthe, like Harrowhark, is always thinking of something. It’s why Gideon doesn’t want to be on her bad side. Her mouse clicks. Pauses. Clicks again.
Ianthe says, “I’m busy, Nav. I’ll ‘catch you on the weekends,’ as you put it.”
“I know for a fact you’re playing Minesweeper right now.” Ianthe’s hand stops immediately. Mouse goes silent, as good as unplugged and out of commission now. Gideon grins. “Dude, I wouldn’t willingly ditch you for Nonagesimus. Like, ever. I owed her a favor and she cashed in on it. Don’t be a brat.”
A single word changes Ianthe’s demeanor. “Interesting, hearing those words from your mouth.”
“You’re sick. Can I go workout and meet you here in a few?”
“Did you ask Nonagesimus first? I thought you said you don’t like being out at night.”
“Just one night.”
Nothing special happens in the routine. Boring legs. Gideon sticks to as many machines as possible, not really investing her heart and soul into it. Nothing creative. Leg curls, leg extensions. Quickie with the leg press. A few lazy squats. Then she returns to the back room, listening to Ianthe talk to herself. She hates Babs.
Someone responds. The exact thing Gideon is thinking: everyone hates Babs. Where Ianthe is laid back, catching the tail-end of each syllable, this new voice is on top of everything. It’s lively and bouncy with each sound that leaves her lips, generally high on life. There’s no way in hell that isn’t Coronabeth Tridentarius. Twins, each on opposite sides of the spectrum. But so, so similar at the same time.
Ianthe asks, when Gideon enters the room, if she actually did a full leg circuit or if she just flopped her legs around. Gideon responds, “I can’t see my legs. Remind me where they are again?” and Ianthe scoffs.
Dreamily, Coronabeth sighs. She always does this when she’s around Gideon, or so Gideon’s told. Her heartbeat is soft, a steady lullaby against her chest. Her tone isn’t as aggressive as Ianthe’s, as if Coronabeth could spend an eternity dedicated to one conversation. Her words are patient, slower, melted butter dripping into a saucepan.
“Did you have a good workout, Gideon?” (Certain things could make it better.) “I heard you aren’t around here as often now.”
“You can thank Nonagesimus for that. When in doubt, always thank Harrowhark first. Don’t know why she wears that stupid cross when she plays God every day.”
“You’re at a clinic now?” Cheerful, almost ignoring the mention of the town’s overturned rock crawling with tiny bugs. “I run all the business’s tech for Dr. Nonagesimus. I’m also a patient; any openings?”
Oh, fuck.
Gideon can feel Ianthe’s eyes on her. Staring hard. Like, super hard. “We might,” Nav says honestly. “I’m primarily babysitting Harrow’s patients while she beatboxes into a recorder.”
“Fantastic.” Coronabeth stands, makes Gideon’s secondary office chair at her secondary job creak the way it always does. She stops next to Gideon with all her height and all her rosy smells. “I hope to see you around soon.” Then she leaves, creating a thoroughly awkward aftermath.
“I would use caution,” Ianthe says. Coronabeth hasn’t left the building yet. In fact, she’s barely crossed over to the entrance. “She and Judith have broken up for the fourth time and she’s clearly distraught about it. Heartbroken. Destroyed. Eviscerated. Positively wasting away as we speak.”
“Those are all the emotions I feel when Judith is around. What a weird couple. How long before they’re together again?”
“Two days, depending on your clinic’s availability. Deuteros is too bland to keep around. She’s got an argument for everything and a solution for problems already solved. If she told me her greatest hobby was watching paint dry, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Immediately, Gideon’s mind goes to Harrow. “Pass me that garbage soda.”
-
No Daredevil tonight. Frankly, her rib still feels awful. When Gideon was a preteen, living in that wretched orphanage stationed in Drearburh’s worst church run by Drearburh’s worst people, she’d gone out for a walk. She practically lived at the gym. She went to outdoor hockey games. Anything to get away from the orphanage. Her greatest goal at that age was to come in, sleep, and have nothing else to do with the place. Least of all did she want to run into Priamhark’s demented daughter on occasion.
There wasn’t anywhere in particular Gideon was walking. It was a rare, enjoyable day out and she felt like wandering. Big truck with aggressive biohazard stickers came barreling down the road. Police chasing after it. Swerving around, probably stolen. An old guy was crossing the street, wearing glasses with bent limbs and swinging a stick around. In Gideon’s youthful mind, the best course of action was to run out into the road and save the guy.
Everything happened in a flash. Old guy was pushed far out of the way. (He flew, actually, because Gideon was and still is an arm-day-only type of person.) Truck saw an eleven-year-old and a messy fluff of bright red hair and tried swerving out of the way. The thief didn’t hit Gideon, but he did slide into several other cars before hitting a building. Gideon saw the wooden slats alongside the truck’s bed crack, barrels come flying out. Next thing she knew, the world became a blur of red clouds in the shape of people. At least Harrowhark left her alone for a while before the mutual bullying resumed. Then Gideon met someone at the gym. The wrong someone.
Tonight, Gideon reviews some material. She has a handful of abilities from the chemical spill, but none of them include steel abs or fast healing. Just heightened senses and a halfway solution to total blindness. She’d much rather become a human-sized spider.
Notes enter the computer. Company names. Locations and routes she’s stopped from recent shipping of illegal cyberpunk software. Printer shoots everything off in braille, keeping things between her and no one else. This isn’t the Batcave. Nothing here is big and shiny and easy for Harrow to access with her Ex-Girlfriend Key. Apparently she can’t even type out her own notes, never mind learn braille overnight.
Biotech companies are ravaging Canaan. The whole state is a mess. Selling all these promises of shiny cybernetics, new lifestyles and cures for ailments such as blindness. Only doctors wearing the fanciest suits are supporting the products. Others, like Harrow, are strongly opposed. There are no disabled voices on the matter, because disabled people aren’t buying the devices. At this point, it’s solely cosmetic. No one who lives on a disability check can afford the crazy service fees that come with the implants. Forget the cost of the implants themselves.
Several thousands to buy, monthly installments in the hundreds to keep it running. Ianthe has one of these implants. Her right arm, Gideon has been told, is solid gold. She had it created in the image of a shiny skeleton hand, all because she had mild arthritis in the elbow and wrist. Fuck it, chop the whole arm off!
Many, many things aren’t lining up. What’s the point in selling knockoffs? Or are the companies involved? It seems likely. It’s impossible to install it alone unless the buyer happens to be a surgeon. A surgeon would deny an unregistered knockoff. Gideon scraps the idea there were knockoffs at all. Reselling isn’t a possibility. Surgeons don’t make money off unregistered junk; they get the money from whomever slapped their name onto the product.
FORGET THAT STUPID IDEA, Gideon writes. Hottest theory: companies are throwing each other’s crap into the ocean for shits. Rip Ianthe’s arm off and throw it into a swamp. Watch her fistfight Shrek.
She spends a good hour learning what the difference is between each company’s product is, mostly designs and color, before passing out on the couch. How in the hell is this the hottest market right now?
The next morning Harrow spends a fair amount of time glaring at Gideon, including during huddle, and thinks Gideon doesn’t feel her searing laser eyes trailing every move. Huddle ends, and Gideon decides to move so suddenly she startles Harrow.
Ten minutes pass. Gideon bums around the treating floor, eavesdropping on Palamedes and Camilla. She doesn’t need super hearing because they’re mutually terrible at whispering. Harrow enters the floor, a horrible little blob of energy behind Gideon’s back, a ghastly assassin waiting to take her last breath, and Gideon decides to move suddenly and successfully startles her again.
“You’re a terrible stalker, Nonagesimus,” Gideon says. “Like bad breath on a dog.”
“Daredevil hasn’t been seen on the streets for some time. I find that interesting.”
“You should. I hear Daredevil is a devout nun now and hardly ever leaves the house except for church on Sunday.”
“Your ribs still hurt.”
“You’re still nosy.”
“I can adjust you.”
“The word you’re looking for is ‘manipulate,’ and you sure can! Don’t touch me, Harrow.” Gideon hears the front door click open, and immediately faces away from Harrow. “We’re starting shift. I’m going to go treat patients if that’s all right with you.”
Harrow makes some sort of annoyed sound before storming off, her feet as loud as a wet firecracker. If it weren’t for the necklaces she wears clinking together, she’d truly be a silent ghost. Two other frantic pairs of feet run around the clinic, and Gideon listens to allergy vials clink around in their containers as Camilla and Palamedes move everything into his portion of the office. He disappears into one. Camilla takes her seat at the desk on the treating floor. Gideon walks around until her first patient is secured in a room.
“Hey Cam,” Gideon says. “Mind setting me up on the roller table before lunch? My ribs suck today.”
She makes sure to ask loudly, just to hear that little breath from Harrow before the closing of an office door. Another breath. Harrow starts dictating one of her reports from yesterday much slower than usual.
Sometime after lunch, Dulcinea finds Gideon. Harrow never did, but Gideon found the roller table. New patient. The schedule is still adjusted to a Harrow-only clinic, meaning Gideon doesn’t have anything in her own patients column yet. Bumming off Harrow for now. Harrow has an examination. Gideon has a free hour. She’s in the middle of someone when she hears it, the voice of Ianthe with a thousand percent more life in it.
Top of the hour. Gideon leaves the room, and Camilla steals away the patient into the night. Busy feet march around the clinic, passing one another in the halls. Everything connects to Dulcinea at the front desk, and despite the crowd that forms she’s relaxed and pleasant. All that quickly goes away. Gideon gets a scent of Coronabeth’s unmistakable rosy perfume and practically starts floating around like a lovestruck cartoon character.
“You must be my handsome doctor!”
Gideon goes from floating to crashing face-first onto the wood floors. Flying was always better than falling. She clears her throat, then she asks, “Are you ready?” and finds misfortune in the fact her voice has cracked twice in three words.
It gets worse when it’s just the two of them in the room (Better?). Gideon finds Coronabeth only needs maintenance, because someone as perfect and regal as her is in great health. Her posture is precise. Her twin is the one with the shriveled-up vertebrae and the discs begging for death. Gideon thinks Coronabeth knows it. She sits tall, almost bragging, holding herself up proudly.
Patient history and muscle testing prove Coronabeth’s status as someone from Ida, more money in her pocket and more room to take care of her health. Meanwhile Ianthe pushes it all aside, and with Ianthe it’s either because she’s trying to make a statement or because she doesn’t really care or a combination of the two. Gideon finds some ickiness in the hips, and Coronabeth says she likes to wear heels on dates. Nice thought. Then Gideon imagines Judith and wants to throw up everywhere. Then she wonders if Ianthe will date Judith ironically the way she dated Harrow when Harrow and Gideon broke up. Not that it bothers Gideon or anything. Hardly ever thinks about it. Not once! Not at all! It doesn’t randomly pop into her head and drive her crazy for hours!
Upper back is fine. Coronabeth’s ribs are in significantly better shape than Gideon’s, never seeing a punch or a stab wound. Lucky girl. Her scapula are even, no irritation in the lats. Gideon says, “A ton of tall people have shoulder issues because they slouch. Yours are fine. Ianthe slouches like crazy. Fixing her neck is like wrangling a bull.”
Coronabeth laughs, a high-pitched sound that makes Gideon want to say Oh, how posh! “How I’d love to see you wrangle a bull. Ianthe slouches because she thinks it’s a statement.”
Nav pauses about the bull comment before her hoarse tone says, “I bet Judith loves that.”
Coronabeth tenses up, immediately. Tight in the shoulders. Drop in her breath. For some reason Gideon wants to do a backflip. “Do you think Judith and I should get back together, Gideon?”
“You’ve only broken up, what, four times? Don’t ask me. I dated Harrow. I have bad taste in good people.” Coronabeth laughs and Gideon resents the statement suddenly.
“She treated you horribly, no? I find it mysterious how you’ve decided to work with her. I find mysteries enticing .” Gideon’s mouth goes dry. “Judith is fun—despite what most people think—but we aren’t right. Am I missing something? Can we fix it? Am I a fool, Gideon Nav? A lovestruck fool?”
“Oh, they taught me all about this in chiro school. I think you guys need a break, maybe. A proper break. Where you go out and do something else that doesn’t involve each other. I think that’s when you’ll know.”
“You are brilliant.” Coronabeth has a smile in her voice, before going supine on the table and allowing Gideon to finish her job. Later she’ll get a jealous text from Ianthe and end up doing a back-alley adjustment at the gym with no table, no charts, and no insurance involved.
Harrow is at the desk when Gideon exits the room with beautiful Coronabeth. Gideon imagines her as a walking princess, and everyone scatters out of her way in a pathetic backwards crawl. Backwards, so they can still stare. She imagines Coronabeth has a strut, a long stroke of steps to match her height and her bold attitude. A sway of the hips; a perfect in-line trade-off of the legs. The room lights up when she enters. Harrow hisses and disappears into the sewer which she came.
In reality, Harrow doesn’t back down. Gideon stands next to her, as close as possible, and ignores the feeling of her eyes burning a hole through Gideon’s throat. Dulcinea sets Coronabeth up at once a week, though the ideal time was once a month given the fact Corona has no real reason to keep coming in. Coronabeth places her hand on Gideon’s forearm and Gideon can hear her own heart having a rave.
“I really appreciate your time today,” Coronabeth says. “Will I see you at the gym later?”
It’s the same cycle when Judith and Coronabeth break up. They’re dating, and Gideon doesn’t see Coronabeth for months. They break up, and suddenly she’s at the gym every day, half-occupying Ianthe’s desk while Ianthe pretends she’s doing work. Both team up on Naberius, and for about a week the gym is at peak cleanliness before Coronabeth mysteriously disappears into Judith’s pants again.
The best Gideon can do is nod, and Coronabeth is off. Dulcinea says she’s pretty and Harrow clears her throat so hard she starts coughing.
“Can I help you with something Supreme Doctor Overlord?” When Harrow says nothing, Gideon assumes she’s doing that glaring thing she does. It’s one of the pros of being unable to see, because surely by now she’d poke both of Nonagesimus’s eyes out. “I think I’m going to bone both Tridentarius sisters. Is this who I am, Harrow? Do I date sisters, one at a time? Do I keep it local?”
“Room three. There’s someone I would like to introduce you to.”
Room three being the biggest treating room they have, Harrow storms off into the night. Quickly. Her tone is quiet, as if keeping a secret between herself and herself. Dulcinea giggles, which means Harrow was red in the face. So Gideon giggles, too.
Room three, the biggest treating room they have, is a cramped space. Four people are swarming the room, plus Harrowhark. Two adults, two kids. Gideon can’t remember the last time she treated a kid. She peeks out from the aviators over her eyes, finding a medium-sized red figure. Teenager. Other kid must be around the same age. They hover awkwardly by the sole treating table, unsure what to do next.
Harrow has Gideon meet a woman first. Soft hands, callused in the points of her fingers. They’re evenly worn down, which means each finger gets even usage; she has great dexterity in her hands and is likely in the field of something related. One hand meets Gideon’s, a proper handshake, and the next covers the backs of Gideon’s knuckles, like a hand hug. The hand hugger is Abigail Pent, Harrowhark’s personal transcriptionist. Abigail works for a few medical clinics around town, doing much of the same thing here. She’s the only person never to ask Harrow to slow down. Never really commented on it. She keeps up with Harrow’s psychotic ramblings efficiently, and Harrow goes so far as to say there wouldn’t be a clinic without Abigail. Why is Gideon here, then.
Magnus is the big guy standing next to Abigail, her stay-at-home husband and general assistant. He says he’s a volunteer proofreader. Takes care of the teens on the side. His hands are massive. Just one engulfs Gideon’s entire right hand in a simple shake. Teens don’t shake. They sit in a corner and whimper when someone has the gall to acknowledge them.
Surprisingly, Harrow doesn’t really hang around. Gideon springs up at the chance to ask Abigail a million secrets, starting with, “So how deep in it is Harrow? I hear her fumbling in the apartments past midnight.”
“I never imagined she’d actually hire a formal treating chiropractor,” Abigail says, not answering the question. Gideon tugs on her leg, grasping it between both of her own and pulling gently. Abigail keeps talking, a regular patient around here. Hardly phased about being a human ragdoll. “I’m sure you’re aware how stubborn Harrow is.”
“There needs to be a stronger word than stubborn.”
Abigail laughs at that. “If I were to put a mean number on it, I’d say she’s about two months behind on all her patients. She’ll send me an entire file in a panic and tell me their worker’s compensation is close to reporting her if she doesn’t hand over the notes. Typically they want these within the same day the patient was treated.”
“Right. Keep everything up to speed. Dictate their medical plan despite having no medical-related education.” Gideon reaches out for Abigail’s hand, helping her to her side. The top leg is stretched outward before resting, bent at the knee. Gideon feels the back of the leg, where the hips are evenly stacked on one another. She tugs one of Pent’s arms, repositioning the torso. “I’m sure all those ten-page reports for disability aren’t helping her progress.”
“No, and those are far stricter. She only has ten days to get the report together, proofread, signed, and sent out to the insurance company and the attorney. Some attorneys prefer it before insurance because they’re sneaky.”
Downward Gideon pushes, eliciting a great popping noise from the hips. One of the dreadful teens giggles about it. Magnus whistles. Abigail continues, “Harrow is finally coming to the realization that if she continues to refuse help, she’s going to push each of these worker’s compensation companies beyond their graces; they’re going to stop sending her patients. They’re already hesitant to send people, especially those in need of surgeries. Harrow is a patient advocate, and she sees nonsense from a distance. In other words, she does more than what they ask of her. She treats them, assesses them, and notes what they actually need.”
“As opposed to giving them a smack on the neck with the activator and calling them healed,” Gideon says. Abigail makes a humming noise she assumes is in agreement.
Gideon adjusts the neck next. Both of Abigail’s first ribs give little to worry about. A single twist of the head brings a quiet popping sound, and the next person is on the table. One of the teens. “Hi,” he says, and nothing more.
“They’re both in that stage where they can’t speak or they’ll die,” Magnus says. “This one here is Isaac. His friend will be Jeannemary. We look after them, keep them out of trouble.”
(“Magnus, please don’t tell the doctor about our trouble,” Isaac says.)
Both teens have the same problem just about every other teenager in the world develops: neck problems. Leaning forward too much, either from schoolwork or cell phones or an unforgivable combination of the two, both Isaac and Jeannemary present with rolled shoulders and lordosis. A loud pop rattles from Isaac’s neck and he starts giggling. Gideon barely has to move her hands to make the minor adjustment, primarily poking the kid with her fingers.
No more questions. Gideon could ask them all day. Harrow is two months behind. Waited until the perfect moment to extort Gideon instead of hiring someone off the streets. Why wait? Why the hesitation? Since when does she gamble? If something is on fire in front of Harrow, she’s the first person to grab the extinguisher. The extinguisher will have about fourteen hidden components for this exact fire in this exact period of history in time, and there will be lists and lists of contingency plans to put the fire out beyond the simple act of just pulling the stupid extinguisher, already.
Companies are hesitant to use Harrow’s clinic, despite the five million therapies and the success rate they have here. Odd. It’s a one and done place. Harrow smacks the spine around, Palamedes monitors physical therapy. The question is always the same when things go wrong for Harrow: who did she piss off?
-
As Daredevil wanders around the town, Gideon’s mind takes a trip. So many questions. Everything regarding Harrow, she’s left behind at the clinic. Deal with that tomorrow.
During the day, Gideon asked as many patients as possible what they knew about these cybernetic implants hitting the market right now. Most of them didn’t get it. Didn’t understand what was so special about giving away one’s humanity. That was the elderly morning crowd. The afternoon crowd woke up a little more and gave more insight. More passion hit the air. She heard a number of reasons to praise the devices (and several speeches about how she doesn’t have to “suffer blindness”, whatever that means). She heard a number of reasons to hate the devices. Service charges—charging people to enact the function of their own limbs. These companies sponsor as many surgeons as possible to get the devices onto peoples’ bodies, and after charging several thousands for a new limb, they continue to charge service fees and licensing nonsense and have the gall to release paid updates to make the limbs function better. News reports about a driver with dual prosthetic arms turning off at the same time while he was driving, because his card had declined the fee. He crashed and killed a large family in a minivan.
It brings up a new tick in the “stolen” column: civil servants are taking the devices and liberating them from service fees. Still doesn’t make sense. Can’t install the implants without a surgeon. Disabled people aren’t buying the devices. Abled people with a cyberpunk fetish are. Meaning they’re cutting their functioning limbs off for something shinier. Surgeon.
“Black market for disabled people?” Gideon asks the night sky.
Inquiries come to work with her the next morning. Perfect place. Gideon waits for the day Cam and Pal decide to stay in for lunch, thanks to that record-breaking Drearburh snow. Harrow never leaves the building. Sometimes, Gideon is concerned, she sleeps the night here. There are some nights she never hears her neighbor across the street tiredly collapse into her apartment door, fumble several times to turn the key, and go inside. There’s no way Harrow, faced with losing her business and her legacy, comes home several hours early on some days.
Couches are scattered across the clinic, a good chunk of them chilling around the med tech’s desk. Wait times aren’t common around here, but on the rare occasion the clinic suffers a big rush Harrow seems to like the place furnished. Gideon likes to sit on different couches each lunch break and find a way to annoy Harrow from different parts of the clinic. She looks forward to lunch.
Lunch happens around them, not so much the break part. Harrow, to Gideon’s surprise, sits with everyone on the treating floor couches. In silence, sounding less like a character from Animal Crossing (a game Dulcinea plays in the background, stuck in her own world.) Palamedes starts talking with Harrowhark about some guy’s allergy vials breaking. Camilla mentions Harrow’s least favorite patient falling asleep on the roller table yet again—some big sweaty guy named Gary who always has the wrong opinion coming out of his mouth—and how Camilla was hesitant to wake him up and hear him talk some more. She says she’d rather drag him out by his toes and Harrow makes a noise Gideon is aware means “laughter”.
Timing is a thing of the essence. At this point Gideon is going to have to blurt out her questions about Canaan turning into a scene from Blade Runner out of context. Who knows when everyone will be sitting nicely like this again. Harrow senses this and cockblocks Gideon immediately.
“How is Coronabeth’s spine?”
“Yes Gideon,” Palamedes says, laughing, “how is Coronabeth’s spine? Is it made from solid gold as they say? Anyone in Ida would give their soul to Coronabeth if she’d asked. I find that interesting.”
“If you find that interesting,” Harrow says, “I think you need to reevaluate your interests.” Sextus says nothing about this.
“She brought something up.” This is it, even if it is a lie. Gideon could also derail the conversation and let Harrow squirm while she details Coronabeth’s general everything, but there’s no time. “Ianthe, her sister, she has that cybernetic arm. Didn’t really need it. It was cosmetic. Coronabeth said she’s fascinated by them. I don’t know how I feel about them. I have two businesses, so I’m working too much to look into it.”
“Feel negatively,” Harrowhark says, a charming person with an open mind and a massive arsenal of terms and phrases no one ever finds offensive. “There are no positives associated with those devices.”
“Now, I wouldn’t say so myself.” Palamedes’s hand leaves the fork between his fingers, abandoning it within the food he’s chosen for lunch. Gideon guesses tuna steak from the smell. Next to him, Camilla has a steak-steak. “There are a number of benefits these new implants can pose, if applied properly.”
“They never are,” Harrow defends. No fork or anything. Harrow practices photosynthesis.
“I would agree. The same way most general practitioners around here write a drug for everything, surgeons are starting to recommend implants for everything. Hormone corrections, which are universal rather than tailored person to person. As we know, hormone imbalances are of several factors; they vary immensely from person-to-person. I’ve read about a man who needed a knee repair surgery tell the surgeon to amputate his leg and replace with it technology.”
“Don’t forget the service fees,” Camilla says. Two words which force Harrow to sigh loudly.
“That would be the part I disagree with. People are voluntarily putting titanium rods into their body and agreeing to pay thousands of dollars a year to control their own limbs. That is madness. How can you justify that?”
Gideon asks, “So Coronabeth should go ahead and get some crazy work done? She can afford it.”
“No one should support the market, period.” Harrow shifts in her seat. “The number of people who come into this clinic who are already involved in a debate with cybernetic implants is baffling to me. Attorneys are encouraging it. Worker’s compensation is encouraging it. It’s the only time I’ve seen the two parties agree on something. When a worker gets injured, all parties involved are ready for the cure-all; chopping a limb off and replacing it with something shinier. Workers are taking the implants for a good settlement. No one is telling them about the fees until it’s too late. Legal jargon doesn’t enforce insurance companies to pay for the service fees, only the surgeries, so people are stuck with the fees permanently. Most people want to go back to their normal lives, nothing more. Nothing so complicated. It’s ruining impairment percentages as well. They’re going to start adjusting the scale so that workers are getting lower settlements—I’m essentially rating a minimum for them having a surgery in the first place.”
Still doesn’t tell Gideon anything evil. Worker’s compensation is doing shady things to make their employees go back to work faster with the lowest possible payout. Wow! What a big shock!
“When I do independent medical evaluations, it’s the easiest way to get everyone to laugh at me. I never suggest cybernetics. I don’t care if it’s trendy in medicine right now. Half the time, there’s no need for it.”
“Shame we aren’t surgeons,” Gideon says. “We’d be making a fortune right now. I heard rumors people are stealing shipments of these things and running around town.”
Feeding the fire. Palamedes has a statement now. “They can take all they want. No one can install the equipment unless they’re a surgeon, and they’re somehow performing the surgery on themselves.”
“It’s obvious,” Camilla says. The room goes quiet for her obvious theory. “I’ve seen the headlines, too. Shipments are going missing. They’re ending up in the ocean. The companies are sabotaging each other.”
“What about all these dead gangs they’re finding in the streets?”
“When there’s profit,” Camilla says, coolly, “there’s war.”
Gideon returns home, feeling more stuck than ever. Is this really Daredevil’s purpose? Helping a bunch of multi-million-dollar companies? Making sure their product doesn’t get stolen? Bodies are piling up on the streets. People are getting increasingly violent. Gang members are starting to get these things installed, taking advantage of other people. As time passes, the fights are going to escalate into something else. These people are going to continue to get implants installed. They’re going to keep improving, in the most nightmarish ways.
Can Daredevil even stop them? Should Gideon pack it all up and move on to the next town?
In no time, it starts eating away at her. She’s been interfering with shipments and sticking her nose in the business as best as possible, but there’s no solution in sight. She can beat up henchmen all she likes, but it won’t amount to anything, just bruised knuckles and weird excuses at work. This can’t be a dead end. Things are happening in her city, and she’s sworn an oath to do something about it. Daredevil defies the boundaries of the police, but it feels like Daredevil is about as useful as the police right now.
Harrowhark approaches Gideon at the apartment complex one random weekend day, sometime before the evening. Gideon decides to say nothing. Harrow decides to say words with her mouth and ruin the beautiful bliss that is dead elevator silence. “You’re asking a lot about cybernetics recently. Are you feeling insecure about your vision?”
“What’s wrong with my vision? Don’t you know I’m deaf and not blind? The aviators are a brand thing, silly!”
“What do you know about John Gaius?”
“Who the fuck is John Gaius,” Gideon says, and Harrow exhales.
“Honestly, do you even know what you’re doing? You’ve picked a battle and failed to organize, and you will lose. I will have an email sent to you. Don’t fret. It will be during Daredevil hours.”
“Cool, we’re talking after work now?” The elevator door opens, and the two of them step out together. They loiter in the hall, neither of them bothering to move. Gideon won’t end the conversation with Harrow swooping in to save the day. No one wants Harrow as their savior. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need a sidekick.”
Gideon begins walking down the hall. Back to the apartment to start the nighttime Daredevil shift. Then she stops. Retraces those five steps she’s made. Not done yet. She tells Harrow, between them, “Not as bad as you do, anyway.”
And she walks off, so cool, stealing the last word. Harrow will think about it for hours and become devastated. She will saunter into her apartment, shoulders rounded, slouched, defeated—
“I simply grow tired of your inability to focus on your clinic tasks. I didn’t hire Daredevil. I’ve seen what little influence Drearburh’s vigilante has on the cybernetics problem.” She walks ahead of Gideon just then, ending the conversation.