Chapter 213 by XarHD

What's next?

The Burden of Care, Part 1

He’d always imagined the confrontation would start with shouting. Maybe a thrown insult, or a cold, surgical question. But as Andy closed the distance to the stone bench, all that heat dissolved. Myra was smaller than he remembered. Or maybe it was the way she’d folded into herself, arms wrapped tight around her ribs, long brown hair fallen in curtains that brushed the backs of her hands. She wore the same thin blue hospital gown from the ceremony, legs tucked up beneath her as if to minimize exposure.

He cleared his throat, not gently. “Mind if I sit?”

Myra jolted so hard her head snapped up, the hair flaring, the fluffy tail behind her shivering in midair. Her eyes—green, unfocused—moved over him in wild arcs. They didn’t land, just hovered at the latitude where a face should be. “Sorry,” she blurted, voice tight. “Didn’t hear you coming. It’s loud here.”

Andy sat at the far end of the bench, leaving a chasm of courtesy between them. “It’s just the fountains,” he said, and instantly regretted the softness in his tone. He’d meant to be clinical. Instead, it sounded almost gentle.

She tilted her head, as if weighing the reply. “For you, maybe. For me it’s… more.” She winced, fingertips digging into her own forearm. “But that’s not your fault.”

He watched her for a while, letting the seconds pile up. She didn’t squirm under the silence, just braced and waited for the blow. It was almost impressive, the way she prepared to be punished.

He tried to conjure the anger that had burned all morning. It was there, banked but ready. He remembered the river, the years of silence, the look on Riley’s face as the two of them had realized Laura’d been betrayed by a friend. But as he traced Myra’s outline now, the anger felt pointless, like picking up a knife to threaten a drowning woman.

She inhaled, shallow and careful. “If you’re going to yell,” she said, “just tell me when to duck.”

He almost laughed. “Not here to yell.”

She nodded, but didn’t relax. Her left hand twitched, then clamped harder on her arm.

Andy watched the knuckles whiten. “Does it hurt?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

She hesitated, then, in a whisper: “It burns again.” She made a sound—half laugh, half gasp. “It’s not even pain, not like before. More like… sunburn, but from the inside. It’s your anger, isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I thought so.”

Andy went still, a different kind of shame lighting in his chest. “Sorry,” he said. “I can leave.”

“No,” she said, quick and raw. “Don’t.” Her fingers splayed, then tucked in again. “I’d rather you just say what you want to say. I can take it.”

He doubted that, but gave her a few more seconds to organize her defenses.

She said, "I don't even know why I'm here. Or why you are. But I can't imagine you wanted a reunion." She ran her thumb along her wrist, a nervous pulse. "Unless it's for closure."

He exhaled, the sound sharp. "I never wanted to see you again. But here we are."

She managed a smile, tiny but real. "Yeah. Here we are."

He looked at her, really looked, and found himself adrift. He'd expected the queen bee, the girl who'd whispered things to Laura that last day. Instead, he found a thirty-year-old in a paper gown, blind eyes rimmed with exhaustion and bruised beneath. There was a tremor in her hands, a catch in her breath each time she talked.

He hesitated, then said, "I'm sorry about your—" He gestured vaguely before remembering she couldn't see it. "Has it been long?"

She blinked, thrown. "What?"

"Your sight," he clarified, gentler than he'd intended.

"Oh." Myra worked her jaw, embarrassed. "I'm still new at this." She laughed, a brittle sound. "Five days, I think? Six, if you count the hospital." She shifted on the bench, as if trying to find a spot that hurt less. "It's not even dramatic. Just… one minute I'm looking at the chart, the next it's gone."

He waited. She didn't seem like she wanted to elaborate, but after a minute, the story spilled out anyway.

"I was working. Too much, probably. Internist. I'd been up thirty-six hours, no breaks. The lights started going funny, then my head did. When I woke up, I was in a bed and everything was black." She pulled her knees in tighter. "They said ischemic optic neuropathy. Blood pressure dropped, my optic nerves were too crowded to begin with, and the rest is history." She tried to shrug, but the motion failed halfway. "Medication I was on probably played a factor, too. I'm supposed to tell people it's just a body thing. Random chance. But I know I did it to myself. Just like—" She stopped abruptly, swallowing whatever she'd been about to say.

He struggled to imagine it. To go from knowing the world’s edges to losing them in an instant.

“You were a good doctor?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

Myra snorted. “I don’t know about good. But I cared more about the patients than my own pulse, if that’s what you mean.”

He didn’t respond.

She turned her face toward him, eyes glazed but locked in his general direction. “It’s weird. I still reach for the light, like maybe if I move my head I’ll catch a glint of something. But it never comes.” Her hand drifted to the neckline of her gown, pulling it higher on reflex. “God, I hate this thing. The nurse said not to mess with it, but it makes me feel like a patient, not a person.” She gave a shaky smile. “Like being thirteen again. Which, as you may recall, was the best year of my life.”

Andy stared at the ground. “Not for everyone.”

She heard the edge in his voice, and for the first time, flinched. “You know, you’re allowed to hate me,” she said, very quietly. “Most people do, once they get to know me.” Her hands fumbled in her lap, twisting the edge of the gown into a wrinkled mess. “But I thought, if I could keep moving, keep fixing other people, maybe I’d eventually stop feeling like a… monster.”

She stopped, the silence raw. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump all that. I know it’s not what you want to hear.”

Andy’s anger tried to rally, but it limped, like a dog too old for the chase. He remembered the last time he’d spoken to Myra. The hallway outside a funeral home, everyone in black, Myra’s arms wrapped around her own chest as if holding in a scream. She’d looked at him then with the same confusion she did now.

He watched her try and fail to smooth her hair back. The motion was all wrong, frantic and aimless.

“It’s okay,” he said, not knowing why.

She shrugged, then shook her head. “No, it’s not. But thanks for saying so.”

Andy sat back, letting his own arms fall limp at his sides. He didn’t know what he’d expected from this meeting, but it wasn’t this. He almost wanted to ask her about the tail, the glow, the weird rules of this new reality, but it seemed cruel to stack new humiliations on top of the ones she already carried.

Instead, he watched the light shift across her face, the way it sharpened the features and made the dark of her pupils huge, consuming.

He tried to find a version of her that deserved all his anger, but the effort flickered out.

The quiet between them hung heavy. The sharp edges of Andy’s anger had dulled, but hadn’t vanished. He wanted to hate her, needed to hate her, but it was like hating a broken doll for the way its head lolled sideways. The only trace of the old Myra was in her hands: they twisted the lap of the paper gown with mechanical precision, wringing it over and over as if the cloth could be dried by sheer will.

It took him a full minute to realize she wasn’t going to speak again unless he made her.

“You can’t stay in that,” he said finally, nodding at the gown. “There’s a store. We can get you clothes.”

She startled—always that fraction of a second too late—and tucked her chin, embarrassed. “Is it that bad?”

“It’s hospital blue,” he said, softer than intended. “No one looks good in those.”

She managed a snort. “If I could see, I’d probably agree.”

Andy pressed his palms to the stone, fighting the urge to fill the silence. “Come on. I’ll walk you over.” He hesitated, then added, “If you want.”

She rose, but it wasn’t the graceful, self-assured movement he remembered. She moved like someone learning to walk again, hunched and careful, one hand splayed out as if she expected the world to tilt beneath her. The new tail uncurled, swishing low to the ground, fur bristling at its tip with every step. Myra’s left hand hovered behind her, occasionally brushing against it as if confirming it was real.

“Does it look… freakish?” She asked after a moment, in a small voice.

Andy didn’t need to know what she was referring to. He studied her for a few moments, but what was he supposed to say? He wasn’t exactly unbiased, what with Claire and Dawn already on a similar boat. “No,” he said, quietly. “It suits you, somehow. That’s the thing… they eventually always do. Claire and Dawn… they went through something like that. Now, it’s hard to imagine them as they used to be. I don’t think they even remember how it felt anymore. It…” He sought the right words, “It becomes your new reality, I guess.”

She nodded, unconvinced, and he saw her hand instinctively go to her new ears. “Come on,” he said, taking the hand she was offering, still trying to summon the anger he almost needed, now, to face her.

As they started along the flagstone path, she said, “I have nothing. Not even a wallet.” The tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a raw thread of humiliation in it.

Andy frowned. “There’s a… system here. It’s not like money, but you get points. Bonus Points, for things people like about you. Or for winning challenges. We can ask Mildred to tell us how much you have.” He couldn’t quite say ‘for being popular,’ because that was the worst possible thing to say to Myra.

She stopped walking. “Is this a game show?”

“Not exactly.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.”

Myra’s mouth twisted, a wry echo of the old her. “Well, whatever it is, I’m already losing.”

He almost told her she had no idea, but the edge of the words died in his throat.

They reached the main path that cut through the resort, winding under trellised vines and over a shallow run of water. Myra tripped once on the uneven stone, catching herself with a hiss. Andy caught her by the elbow before she could topple. Her arm was sinewy, warmer than expected.

She pulled away the instant she’d regained balance, but didn’t let go entirely. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I hate being a cliché.”

“You’re not,” Andy said, though he wasn’t sure he believed it. “You’re just adjusting.” And to be honest, he was impressed, despite his personal feelings. He couldn’t imagine how he would feel, if he lost his sight as suddenly as she did, but he suspected he wouldn’t even want to get out of bed.

She gave a half-laugh. “The word you’re looking for is ‘helpless.’” She took a breath, then: “So. How does your weird point economy work?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to remember what Arabella had explained. “You get them from… the Audience. Sometimes for doing well in challenges, or if they like something about you. There’s a screen in the Main Lobby that shows the totals.”

Myra snorted. “So it is a game show.” She shook her head, hair flopping messily over her cheek. “Okay. Do we have time to stop there? Not like I know what anything here costs.”

Andy nodded, then realized she couldn’t see it. “Yeah. We’ll check.”

They moved in silence for a while. The air was humid, the paths empty at this hour. Andy wondered if the others had been told to give him space for this, or if the universe just wanted the two of them to marinate in each other’s company.

He cleared his throat. “Why did you take the job? The one that made you work so much?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “What else was I supposed to do? Sit around and feel sorry for myself?” She twisted her mouth, considering. “It’s easier, being needed. Even if it’s just by strangers.”

Andy remembered her in middle school, always orchestrating study groups or fundraisers, always the epicenter of every disaster. She’d hated silence, hated being alone. Probably came with being adopted, kids in school used to say. She needed to fill a void.

He almost felt sorry for her.

They rounded the corner and the Main Lobby spread out in front of them, all glass and bright stone. It was empty except for a staffer at the front desk and the omnipresent hum of some distant machinery. Andy led her to the big monitor that hung above the fireplace, a rotating ticker of names and numbers.

“We’re in the Main Lobby now,” he said, as clinically as he could. “It’s round, about fifty feet wide. There’s a column in the middle, that’s the elevator that leads to the… the Master’s Suite. You can’t access it unless…” He hesitated. “Well, we’ll discuss that later. We came in from the door that leads to the Inner Gardens. There’s a double door, glass, leading outside, here,” he walked her to it, “and another one leading to the Banquet Hall, where food is served,” he walked her there, noticing how she murmured under her breath, perhaps counting steps. “And a corridor, here, leading to the bedrooms and other common rooms on the property.”

He paused, then walked her to the Commissary, and the leaderboard above it. “There’s a screen up above us, displaying everyone’s Victory Points and Bonus Points. Victory Points are how you win this show - get to one hundred. Here,” he said, leading her hand to the sleek chrome machine, “is the Commissary, a way for you to spend Bonus Points on benefits and upgrades.” He hesitated. “If you want to check what you can do with it, I can read for you, or some of the others can, too.” He pointed at the screen, even though she couldn’t see it. “You started with about five thousand five hundred Bonus Points.”

Myra made a face. “Is that good?”

Andy shrugged. “Depends what you want. Some of the clothes are expensive, but not all.”

She nodded, then let the silence stretch. Her hand absently stroked the tail, which seemed to relax at her touch, the fur smoothing out along its length.

He said, “Ready?” and she replied, “Yeah.”

Andy led the way, slowing his pace so she could match it. As they walked, he tried to recall every good reason he’d ever had for hating Myra, but all of them seemed childish now. The woman beside him was not the villain he remembered. Not the scheming thirteen year old girl, not the queen bee. She was just… exhausted. Human.

They entered the Annex, a short glass corridor leading to a domed building where the shops were. Andy described it to her, then opened the door for her, then realized she’d stopped at the threshold.

“Is it safe?” she asked, voice light but brittle.

He stepped in first, then said, “Yeah. It’s just a store.”

Inside, the lighting was dimmer, cool and filtered. The shop itself was called Bob’s, and Andy had heard about it from Marissa and some of the other women. It was a fever dream of color and texture—clothes of every cut and style hung on racks that curved around the room, shoes and accessories displayed on circular islands. The smell of new fabric and old plastic hung thick in the air.

Mildred stood behind the counter: tall, with inky black hair and a face so pale it seemed to glow. She wore a name badge—Bob, Andy noted—though her mouth curled in a smile so artificial it bordered on menacing.

“Welcome, Master and Contestant Myra,” she sang out. “Looking for something special, or just the usual?”

Andy hesitated. “Just browsing, thanks.”

Bob’s gaze flicked to Myra, then back to Andy. Her smile went toothy. “First time for your companion, I see. May I offer assistance?”

Myra stammered, “Just something… normal. I guess.” She gripped the edge of a rack for balance. “Nothing too bright.”

Mildred glided around the counter, hands steepled. “Right this way, honey. I’ll find you a few options.”

Bob disappeared between the racks, the hem of her black dress whispering across the polished cement. The shop was empty except for a chrome mannequin in the corner and a low soundtrack of house music that could only be described as “****.”

Myra stood rooted, arms folded tightly, trying to vanish into the gap between a rack of hoodies and a wall of mesh bodysuits. Her tail thumped against the floor with each nervous flex. Andy watched her hover, weighing whether to offer help or just let her camouflage herself for a minute.

He cleared his throat. “If you want, I can describe the options.”

Myra didn’t look up. “Is there anything that isn’t a sex costume?”

Andy scanned the racks. “Define ‘sex costume.’”

She laughed, brittle and sharp. “You know exactly what I mean.”

He pretended to study the clothes with professional detachment, describing each in turn: “First, there’s a row of jeans. Actual denim, and I think they’re cut for women who never skip squats. The tops are mostly… cropped.” He fingered a baby tee, so thin it was translucent in the shop’s flat lighting. “There’s also a selection of skirts. I’d say ‘business casual’ but the shortest one barely covers the co-pay.”

She made a face. “Just once, I’d like to wear something that doesn’t make me feel like a prop.”

He found a white linen shirt-dress, knee length, with mother-of-pearl buttons down the front and a sash at the waist. “This one might work. It’s got sleeves, at least.”

Bob materialized at Myra's side, arms full of hangers: two sundresses in pale blue and orange, a black jumpsuit, a handful of coordinated accessories, and something made of glossy PVC that caught the dim light. She held up the shiny item first. "Premium rainwear, for those sudden island storms."

Andy blinked. “What island storms? The sky has been cloudless since we arrived.”

Bob grinned, so wide Andy thought her head must surely split in two. “You never know, Master.”

Myra tilted her head. "What does it look like?"

Andy cleared his throat. "It's a... catsuit. Skintight. Transparent. With a zipper down the front."

"Hard pass," Myra said flatly.

"Very well," Bob said, the smile unblinking. She draped the catsuit over the mannequin's head and began sorting the rest. "Master, do you approve of these options?" she asked, holding up the sundresses.

Andy watched Myra’s jaw clench. She hated the performative deference, but he couldn’t tell if it was because it made her feel more objectified, or because it made her feel less in control. He reached for the blue dress, feeling the lightweight fabric between his fingers. “This one’s decent. It’s a blue dress. Do you want to try it on?”

Myra hesitated, then nodded. “I guess. Could you, uh, lead me?”

He guided her through the racks, her hand clenched on his arm as if she were afraid of getting hopelessly lost otherwise, until she found the changing stall by feel. Bob glided after them, a silent shadow.

"I've got it from here," Myra said, “thank you.” She released his arm and fumbled for what she thought was the curtain. Her fingers caught the edge of the fabric and tugged it across—only halfway, though she nodded with satisfaction as if she'd secured her privacy. Inside the half-open stall, she ran her fingers along the wall, then reached for the hanger Andy held out.

Andy opened his mouth to tell her, then stopped. She stripped off the hospital gown without ceremony, revealing a lean, muscular body that looked both new and worn. Her tail curled reflexively around her thigh as she struggled with the dress's unfamiliar cut. The tail caught in the hem, and she swore under her breath, trying to work it free.

Showed boobs to Master! +1 VP
Showed naked body to Master! +2 VP

Andy turned away, studying a rack of scarves with sudden fascination, but couldn't ignore the soft susurrus of fabric and the awkward ballet of Myra's dressing reflected in the mirror opposite.

"Could you... help with the buttons?" she finally said, voice so small he almost missed it.

He turned. "Sure." He stepped into the stall, the air instantly crowded. Myra stood, arms crossed at her waist, the dress hanging loose around her shoulders. The buttons ran from neck to hem. He started at the top, working downward, fingers brushing the warmth of her skin each time he slipped one through. His breath changed—just slightly—becoming deeper, more measured. The fox tail thudded against his shin; it was softer than he expected, downy, and he **** himself not to react.

He paused at the last button, just above her knees. "There."

"Thanks," she said, tilting her head slightly, nostrils flaring. Something had shifted in the tiny space between them—a warmth that wasn't just body heat. She couldn't name it, but it made her skin prickle. "Can you tie the sash?"

He did, knotting it loosely. The tail poked out from under the hem, flicking once, twice, then stilling. She sensed a change in the emotions around her, that pushed past whatever resentment he'd been nursing.

He stepped back, clearing his throat. "It looks good."

Myra smoothed the dress over her hips, hands trembling, cheeks warming not just from embarrassment now. "Do you mean that, or are you just trying to make me feel better?"

He shrugged. "Both."

She snorted, almost a laugh, feeling the heat of his attention like sunlight on her skin. "You're terrible at lying."

"It's not my best skill," he said.

She seemed to relax a millimeter, then ran her hand down the buttons again, as if checking his work. She pulled at the collar, then tugged the sleeves lower. The dress fit—maybe too well.

He tried to lighten it. “If you want, we can go for something less… blue.”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, it’s fine. I just… wasn’t ready for how different clothes feel when you can’t see them.”

Bob loomed in the doorway, arms folded with inhuman precision. “Would you like to accessorize?” she asked, voice syrupy.

Myra recoiled. “No, thank you. Just… the basics.”

Bob bobbed her head, then set a pair of soft canvas sneakers at Myra’s feet. She also produced a canvas tote bag, which she pressed into Andy’s hands. “If you require additional items, the account will be charged automatically,” she intoned, gaze lingering just a beat too long on Myra.

Myra slipped her feet into the shoes. "Do they match?" she asked, sarcasm razor-thin.

Andy looked: they were white, with a navy stripe. "They do."

"What else did she bring?" Myra asked, fingers searching the air until they found Andy's arm.

He rifled through the bag. "A black jumpsuit. Looks... normal, actually."

She nodded. "Let me try that one."

As she fumbled with the buttons of the dress, Andy turned away. "Need help?"

"Just with the top ones," she admitted.

His fingers brushed her collarbone as he undid the first three buttons. The air between them warmed; he stepped back quickly.

"What's wrong?" she asked, nostrils flaring slightly.

"Nothing," he said too quickly.

Bob appeared with another armful. "Perhaps these would suit better?" She held up a leather harness with strategic cutouts.

"What is that?" Myra asked, hearing the rustle.

"Nothing appropriate," Andy said firmly, taking it from Bob's unresisting hands. "She brought bondage gear."

Myra's cheeks flushed. "Jesus. No."

The jumpsuit proved challenging—her tail kept catching in the zipper. "Can you...?" she asked, voice small.

Andy guided the tail through the special opening, his palm accidentally brushing the base where it met her spine. She inhaled sharply.

"Sorry," he murmured, his own breathing slightly uneven.

"It's fine," she said, but her skin prickled with awareness of something she couldn't name.

Bob returned with a sheer negligee. "Perhaps for sleeping?"

"She doesn't need that," Andy said, more forcefully than intended.

Myra tilted her head, sensing the shift in his voice. "What is it this time?"

"See-through nightgown," he explained. "Practically invisible."

She snorted. "Like my dignity." But her tail swished once, betraying something other than annoyance.

They settled on the blue dress after all. As they left, Andy carrying the bag of spare clothes and the hospital gown rolled tight, Myra's tail—enormous and impossible to hide—swished behind her, causing the hem to flutter and the sash to shift with every step.