Intra-group fighting

"Disgusting.".

It comes out flat, the only word that fits the sour, hot knot crawling under your ribs. You stare at the scene like a verdict you didn't want to read: your self-appointed leader, Kim Harris, sitting with Charity Dawson (or rather, Charity lodged in Dawn Reynolds' body) asking soft, careful questions and treating every reply like scripture.

You should be tearing information out of her. You should be bargaining, ransacking whatever scrap of authority she has until she coughs up your sisters. Instead, Kim nods, scribbles, and believes. You watch the way she leans forward, how trust absorbs her face. You taste bile.

Why hasn't she left Dawn's body - because she can't, like all of you, she cannot exit your host anymore.

Why can the other Charitys slip in and out - because they never truly integrate: they skim minds the way a reader skims pages, sampling, not settling. Dawn, the shell you all watch, is different: Charity in Dawn is rooted, a foreign seed grafted and growing.

Which people does Charity control at Tina's school, if Dawn can show by shapeshifting into them - uh, well, she can name them all, she thinks, but shapeshifting? Meaning, within Dawn's body? Sure, she can spit some goo and shift it, if that's the same.

Can Charity detect your telepathy - yes and no, apparently. Charity tried to study the goo's composition of both herself and her you-possessed body, and found out they can detect the energy waves caused by each other's mind activity, but cannot distinguish the words of a mental conversation. You can sense her mind activity too, after all, since she's constantly suppressing the green goo inside of Heather's body; it's like when you feel another of your stray close, only that it's more unpleasant.

What the hell has Charity done to Heather during this month to leave her in this state - she, she... oh God... she can't, she's sorry. Cries. Claiming guilt is the only thing she can do, and even that is ragged with shame.

You don't argue the questions per se. You argue the calm. Why is that thing sitting there, cross-legged and speaking of ethics, instead of being sealed in a cell, or worse? Why is it not already under a train or under the ocean?

-I've had enough of this.- You say at last, the words sharp and sudden. Cecilia and Rhiannon mirror you with small, tight nods, and the three of you move to the door. For a heartbeat, you think Liz will stay; then she hesitates and follows as well. You saw her entering with Maylene earlier, and frankly, you can't think of a good reason why she should have.

Elizabeth is not like you. She doesn't share your commitment, nor your vision. You thought she did, but now, you're not sure if she's really on your side, or if she hasn't yet admitted to herself she isn't.

-Hey, look.- Cecilia murmurs once you're out on the sidewalk. She points, not at sidewalk cracks but at a form slumped against the paved wall.

Cassidy leans there, one hand pressed to the concrete, the other cradling her stomach; she breathes through small, angry grunts. Her sclerae are nettled red; her face is a map of acute pain.

"Traitress."

You don't walk past, no: you close the distance and you plant yourself in front of her. Her eyes flick up, raw.

-Say, was it worth it? To sell us out for nothing?- You demand.

-Uh, Bella, maybe we should...- Rhiannon tries to soothe, reaches to steady you. You shrug her hand away like a wingshake.

-The fuck you want, blondie?- Cassidy snarls, towering over you by more than ten centimeters. Her voice is gravel and heat, yours is a piercing trill.

-How could you betray us? Your own people, for some girl you have no relationship with?-.

-She's my sister.- Cassidy says, flat as a blade.

-We are your sisters! How could you forget that? You actually believed Charity would leave her be? Perhaps you knew it already deep down, uh? But you couldn't accept the truth, so you would rather work with our enemy...-.

-Our enemy?- She repeats: -My people?-. She spits again on the pavement and steps in, shrinking the space between you.

Those ten centimeters are now fifteen.

-Mh, nice hair, blondie.- She snorts, curling a hand through a tuft. You slap at her fingers and she clamps your wrist with a practiced grip, not cruel but resolute; the pressure makes you taste copper.

-Fluent like silk. Shining like fuckin' corn. Who bought them, Daddy's card? And this outfit... even now that you're a hoe you look like an expensive one. You think just because the same guy is thinkin' our thoughts we are equal. You have no idea what it means to be me. What the world 'sacrifice' means.-.

-How dare you? My mother...- You start.

-Oh ohh, bu-uh, your mother has been assaulted, poor her!- Cassidy's smirk is a serrated thing: -While she was drunk on the couch, drinking prosecco and masturbating. How many of her nails have they scratched again?-.

-They bound her, gagged her, you rude bitch! She was covered with livids when I found her! Now she can barely leave the house! And you, you could have warned us! You could have given a damn clue! But you protected that snake and showed your face anyway, and that is simply... revolting!-.

You wrench your arm free with a cold, clean motion and meet her snarl with eyes like knives. Cassidy laughs once and smiles.

-Livids, huh? Lemme show you.- She pivots and lifts her t-shirt. Cecilia and Rhiannon look away immediately. You don't. You stare until she turns back.

-You wanna know why I keep them? Why I don't just erase every scratch? So I don't forget who is the only person who matters to me. The one I promised she'll never undergo a tenth of what I endured. So yeah, I made my choice. And yes, you're fucking right, even if I had known Charity would take her, I'd do it again. Because whatever she is now to me, it's still dozens of times what all of you combined are. So go back to your feather pillows and your mother's cunt and let me vomit in peace.-.

Her contempt is a thrown thing. For a second your hands go cold, your gaze slips sideways; but you catch it, and the contempt returns, razor bright.

-Such big words for such a failure.-.

-Say that again.- Cassidy straightens, taut and furious. Liz steps between you two like a pale, hesitant peacekeeper, her palm flat against your chest, keeping the heat on a leash.

-That's enough! It's gone on too long. Cassidy, I know you don't want to, but you should go back inside and stay close to Dawn. Bella,- she says to you, voice small but firm: -we have to get ready for tonight.-.

Your chest feels the pressure of Liz's hand. You pull back, drawing one last look at Cassidy's face.

-Fine. It was a waste of time, anyway.-

You turn on your heel and walk. Liz is right: tonight matters more than this spitmatch. The first batch is almost done. Half a hundred little yous, tucked in cream jars, waiting to be shipped to the world.

"Unless someone interferes..." You think, glancing at the girl who spoke last.

---

Dawn has finished speaking, and the room swells with questions. You try to listen at first, but when Anne Browly presses her again about how many people she is possessing — a question Dawn already answered — you stand and walk out. You have someone else to see.

Heather slipped through a side door minutes ago. You have not been able to talk to her since she returned; every time you try she slips away. Not just with her body, but with her presence; or rather, her absence. She looks at you like you are a stranger.

But you have a thousand things to tell her. That you could not be happier she is back, that you will never leave her again, that you do not know what she went through this last month but you are here if she wants to tell you, that—

-Uh.-

The side room reads like a guest kitchenette, a microwave in a corner, a chipped table in the center. On that table Heather lies back, her uniform discarded, her hand moving between her thighs with slow, private insistence. Your best friend is fingering herself, eyes half-closed, the whole motion ordinary and terrible at once.

She has not noticed you. You do not move. For a moment, you do not even know what you should do: walk away and spare her shame, interrupt, or step closer and join her.

The clock clicks over and she looks up, cheerful at first, but then her words break into fragments.

-Daddy, I'm re... you're not... no... Tin... I...-.

-Hey.- You say after a moment, keeping your voice soft: -Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you, I just wanted to check... No, don't worry!- You add quickly as she scrambles to cover herself, cheeks flaring. Your hand lifts without thought; she shrinks from it like a hurt animal.

Join her? You're ashamed of having simply considered something like that. This, this is not the girl you grew up with, not even the lewder version you created. This is just... wrong.

-W-Where's Dawn? I need Dawn.- She pleads, voice thin and tearing, her eyes restless: -Why is Daddy late... no... I need Dawn, Dawn!-.

Your chest clenches: "Why her? I'm here, look at me! Can't you see?".

-Dawn is... close. But listen, Heather, I know you think she's your friend, but you shouldn't trust her. She's dangerous.-.

Heather watches you like you've spoken a foreign language. She shakes her head over and over, whining "No", "Dawn", slurring fragments you cannot piece together.

What have they done to her?

-Heath, please. I don't want to upset you, I'm just worried for you. You know that everything I do is to protect you, right? I don't know what she told you, but she isn't what she seems.- You say, the words careful and small.

-You're lying!- She snaps.

The accusation hits like cold. It should be only sound, but it cuts, deep and sharp.

You've known Heather forever. Best friends for a decade: arguments, apologies, the ordinary scaffolding of a life shared. But she never, never accused you of lying. She trusted you in a way nobody else did. The betrayal in that single sentence makes the room tilt.

-...Alright.- You say in a whisper: -Alright, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... to hurt you.-.

Silence stretches. You **** a smile because you have to pull the thread back.

-Hey, you remember your tenth birthday?-.

Her mouth hangs open, blank; she neither nods nor shakes her head.

-Your parents took us to the riding school. There were you, me, the parish kids, even Annabelle. You told me you wanted to impress her. You always looked up to her.- You say.

"Like I did at you." You think, and leave it unsaid.

-Annabelle...- She murmurs.

-But you were used to puppies, not horses. I remember your face when they led us into the stables, all the neighing and the stamping. When they asked you to pet one...-.

-I fell.- She whispers.

-That's right.- You say, the memory easing something inside you: -Your dress was full of straw and mud, and everyone laughed. I laughed too. But then I saw you were really scared, so I did something stupid. Remember?-.

...

-I punched the horse in the face, before anyone could stop me. I told him, 'that's my friend, apologize to her!' He whinnied louder and scared me, and the managers scolded me. I skipped the rest of the ride out of pride. You skipped it too, just to stay with me. That's... hilarious, thinking back at it. And I guess I... I did ruin your present, didn't I?-.

...

-I'm sorry, Heath. I'm always a disaster as a friend. I always put you in troubles with your parents and I can never really help you then. I waited a month to come for you instead of doing that the first day. Let aside I'm possessing you, heh. And when you told me what you felt...-.

Heather frowns, looks down, then up, and a shy, fragile smile curls at one corner of her mouth. You return it, hands trembling.

-We could go back there.- You murmur, jaw tight: -I take Kim's car and we go. To have that ride, or anywhere you want. We don't turn back, they can do without us. I don't care anymore. I just want to be with you.-.

Her whole face brightens like someone lighting a match. She twirls a curl of brown hair between her fingers, childish and delighted. Even exposed and raw like this she is lovely. Now you recognize her: she's the Heather who flushed at nothing, the one who chose you as her best friend, the one you always thought of as your sister long before you became who you are now.

-Is Dawn coming too?- She asks, hopeful.

Your joy fades out, but your smile remains. You nod small, and she giggles, the sound a thin, bright thing. You leave the room.

---

Several hours later

PCHEW

The lollipop snaps free with a juicy sound, a thin thread of saliva stretching from your lips to its cherry head.

Finally you have a moment to yourself, away from the plotting and the backstabbing and the constant ache of other people's needs. Just this body, these lips, your lips, and the hunger in them that wants somewhere to go.

-Mmm... soon... really soon...- You murmur, parading the candy in front of your face as if you could catch your own sexy reflection in its glossy red curve.

Yes. Pretty soon. It will all be over soon, and you will be able to use this lithe frame however you want. Tom... your old self... mmm, if he were here, he would be **** to have his cock sucked instead of this lollipop. It's what he always wanted, you know that better than anyone else.

And he will be here, soon. You will make him watch, and then you'll give him what he’s been aching for. You will get on your knees, take him deep, make him beg, and when it's done he'll be yours in a whole new way. The thought makes your core pulse hot while your eager mouth toys with the candy.

There are just some... pebbles. Tiny, useless pebbles on your way. That pesty bodyhopping blondie; the army of petty nobodies who believe they're your equal just because you once shared the name; and finally, well, then there's the bitch you’re borrowing right now—the voice you use to moan as you press your Chupa Chups against your slit.

But what you’re borrowing will be totally yours once you finish with them.

-Fffuck! Fuck, yes! I'm Kim Harris, and I'm such a bitch!-.

You lick the sweet head again, cherry mixing with something saltier and thicker. Legs splay into an M, your fingers pinching a nipple to keep the flame roiling up instead of spilling out.

The pussy beneath your hand trembles, poor her, she must feel so alone, so without you. Your middle finger starts to scrape inside, each stroke sparking heavier breaths across your lips. The lollipop lies abandoned on the couch, coated with spit and a shine of vaginal fluid. Your back slides down the cushions as moans spill, irregular and bright, and your legs kick small twitches into the air with every shudder.

But this is not you fingering on your couch, no, this is Kimberly Harris, that's her tongue moving in your mouth, that's her eyes flickering frantically, that's her brunette locks sliding over your collarbones.

"Yes, scream for me, Kim, cum for me!".

Pleasure builds, a high glass of heat trembling toward the rim, until—

BZZ BZZ

...an unmistakable sound throws you down a pit.

You stand up with a sharp inhale, your body reshaping into its original form. You're hot, at least, you could have ended up in Lucy or Savannah.

-What?- You ask snatching at the phone.

-Aha. Mh-mh. Good job, Chelsea, say the address again? Nice. Oh yes, don't worry; those photos no longer exist. Am I not a woman of my word? Thank you, honey, bye bye.- You hang up and you exhale, caressing your breast with one hand.

God, blackma... that is, induced persuasion has become difficult now that everyone is a sex-maniac bimbo with a quite low moral standard; like, many of them have already started spreading nudes before you even had the chance to ‘convince’ them otherwise. Still, goo or no goo, the university cheer squad are vipers at heart; when Captain tryouts come, an old picture of one of them at fifteen with braces and thirty pounds on could be, let's say, unpleasant.

But, damn, it's been hard. It's all afternoon you're having people following that brunette prissy all around the city, and aside from a pair of brainwashed losers, you had to bring out a couple of old favors and a video of some drunk boyfriend trying to give himself a blowjob.

And what have you found out? That she visited an ethnic shop and then the cemetery, big stuff. Meanwhile, you're left with quite a few cards to play for the future.

Oh well, new world, new rules. Besides, at least you recognized the address as one of Regina Anderson's stocking warehouses. Meaning, Elizabeth Patton and her bunch of idiots, whatever mess they are cooking, are in your hands.

You morph some practical clothes on, and you're ready to go out.

"Almost forgot." You text the place to May-May. She'll be so proud of your work.

Not that you care, of course.

---

"Who am I trying to protect?".

The question has been gnawing at you since this morning, since the exchange with Cassidy.

Why are you doing any of this? Is it loyalty to the person the old Liz once mistook for friend? Or toward your old body and your real sisters, perhaps. Or maybe, toward this girl you're wearing like a meat suit. But then, should you? How much are you entitled to respect her wants, now that you are her?

You peek around you to check no one is passing by and watching. Well, you guess that if there were someone passing by, seeing you moving like this would surely make them watch; but it doesn't seem to be the case. You press against the fence, then feel your body melting and reshaping, and after a few seconds, you're on the other side, walking toward the warehouse.

You're not Elizabeth Patton, obviously; she would have never been able to do that. But Tom Harris wouldn't as well, and yet you identify yourself as him, despite having Liz's memories and personality and her DNA inside your every cell. Maybe the truth is you are both and neither. You descend from them both, you contain their echoes, not in tidy halves but in a messy inheritance. Daughter, ghost, impostor; none of these labels sit right. Daughter sounds wrong when you use your supposed mother's body to-

"Locked.".

The door is supposed to be open at this hour; the absence of light inside feels wrong, a dark blink where a hum should be. The place is quieter than expected, and you expected it to be quiet.

"Alright, well, Tina broke down a doorway, so..." You set your shoulder to the door and push. Supernatural power thrums under your skin, and with a crack, the lock gives. For a dizzy breath, you stagger as resistance drops, then you step into the cool, dim entryway and let your eyes adjust.

-Bella? Ceci? Guys, where are you?-.

But it takes you no more than a minute to realize the obvious: this place is completely empty.