Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Keanu didn’t like to be touched, but Ilya was determined to hug him.
At this moment, she didn’t care how uncomfortable he might get. Because it would be, in all indications, the last moment they would ever have together. One last show of solidarity to him, and boost of confidence to herself. And she didn’t care how much or how little he understood. This is it.

Even so, she had trouble meeting his eyes. It was easier to glance at herself, at her green hooded sweatshirt and jeans. After the Capitol finery, it was such humble garb for such an important day. He wore a grey sweater and khakis, which made his face look even more sallow than it usually was. Finally, she allowed her eyes to train up to his face… his perpetually sullen frown and his almost-as-perpetually downcast eyes. His dark bangs hung limply over his forehead.

She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said, as if preempting him from doing whatever was on his mind. Closing the distance, she caught him in her arms. As expected, she felt his body stiffen. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, burying her face in his shoulder.

“… Why?” said Keanu after what seemed like forever.

“Because it’s goodbye,” she said. She tightened her hold on him. “This may be the last time we ever hug.”
Or see each other again, at all. You won’t last five minutes.

He heart then leapt. Was he actually relaxing?
“I know you don’t like hugs,” she said, still keeping her face to his shoulder, trying to put that last unkind thought out of her mind. “But I want to. I’m going to… miss you.”
She didn’t trust herself to move, either. She couldn’t run, or she might scream. Or shatter into blubbering pieces. Or drop to the floor, just like that.

He made no attempt to break away. After about ninety seconds, they eased apart. And Ilya caught, out of the corner of her eye, a dark spot on her sweatshirt. She reached over and touched it… wetness.
Keanu snorted in that exact moment.
Ilya’s heart leapt again. I may be the first person outside his family to see him cry.
… And the last.

Chapter Text

Romantic was not the best way to be in District Five. It was inefficient and frivolous, and that was the last thing a busy scientist or engineer—what every ambitious Five child wanted to be when they grew up-- needed.
But romance was good for one thing: making marriages easier; and the stability it brought to his life more than made up for the fact that Boris Kistner was marrying a diehard romantic.

Annamaria’s family was unlucky indeed—being romantic and emotional ran in her entire family’s blood; meaning they would never climb to the heights of society. But she herself was lucky in other ways: first, you couldn’t deny she was a startling beauty. Her translucent skin, turquoise eyes, slender figure and long red hair had turned the heads of all men around her, even the most cool and logical ones.
Even Boris, who stood out among his friends for cool-headedness.

He could have married another scientist… such as Rosalind, his laboratory partner since graduation; even more brilliant than him. But he wanted children, and he always doubted she wanted any. At any rate, someone with less ambition, less social position, would be more likely to stick around and be patient with the work of raising them.
Even if they’re to be reaped. There’s always that risk.

And so he walked into the risk with eyes open, for the chance to raise a family of his own; and after they married, he and Annamaria settled into a house with many rooms.

Those District Five citizens not of top scientific caliber tended to become teachers… altogether a less desirable profession. But to its credit, District Five hated to waste the talents of a single citizen, no matter how low on the social totem pole.

You entered the teaching profession at fifteen, and for the first three years, you were just as likely to be reaped as anyone else. (It was a rumor that if you weren’t even good at teaching, you’d be even more likely to be reaped than the others. At any rate, it was a way to get rid of surplus romantics.) The teachers who really mattered, the elites, if you will, of a middling profession; weren’t in charge of young children anyway. They’d be whisked off to District Five’s top universities and exempted from reaping. No way was a mere Bohr going to reach that rarified air. Yes, Annamaria was rumored to be descended from one of history’s greatest physicists; but by the time of her generation, the Bohrs were apples fallen too far from that tree.

Perhaps reflecting that, Annamaria had lost no fewer than twenty family members to reapings over the years. The last one had been her own little sister, just a few weeks after turning thirteen. Even though she had tried not to grieve too much—what was a death from a Panem reaping, anyway?—she couldn’t help herself. Samantha had been her best friend, her sunshine. And now her sunshine was gone—always clouded over with the prospect of her own reaping, two more long years.

But those two years had passed, and Annamaria had escaped—a second important way luck had been on her side.

Chapter Text

Boris didn’t think much of people who considered themselves psychics, or possessed of a sixth sense. They were worse than romantics. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a deep sense of portent at the birth of his first children. Twins. His family would be large indeed; they were right to get a large house. And beautiful, too—both the baby boy and girl had their mother’s silky red hair and unfreckled complexions, as well as his clear eyes. Full of intelligence, he thought as he looked into them. If any day you were justified to be emotional, this would be the day.
Later, he climbed into bed and spooned up against his wife, who still held their babies in her arms. Their eyes were shut, deep in slumber; Annamaria turned her head and smiled dreamily at him. He kissed her forehead, then softly on the lips.

Then she bent her head and sang, almost in a whisper: “You know, it never rains in Southern California—“

“Annamaria!” He snapped his head back in shock. “You can’t sing that song to a child.”

“Why can’t I?”

“Because it’s ancient history. Can’t you just sing a lullaby—the one about the puppy and kitten, or the one about the lamb?”

“But I like the California song better.” Annamaria paused, then turned to him. “And they’re babies… they can’t understand the words anyway.”

“You can’t sing about District Five’s ancient history. It causes too many… unnecessary emotions.”

“So what gives?” She gave him a look, more amused than annoyed. “This isn’t your lab. It’s not like the Peacekeepers are going to punish you for it.”

Boris paused. “… Actually, what if pretty soon, it turns out exactly like that?”

“Well, the children and I will just enjoy it until they do,” said his wife. And, in matters like this, over-sentimental as she was, she usually got her way.
All he could do was cuddle her close and stroke the tiny heads of his children, occasionally dropping kisses on the tops of their heads. For she was right; there wouldn’t be a moment this special again for a while.

Many hours later, after the children had long been put to bed, she reached for him in the dark and found his shoulder . They fell on top of the covers together, frantic to catch breaths in between their joined lips.
He had thought she was fragile so soon after giving birth, but he had underestimated her. She was slow, enduring, relentless; full of a soft, sweet determination to make him melt. And he could not help but give in; moments like these being one of the few precious times you could be fully vulnerable and unafraid.
No cameras in bedrooms, thank heavens. That was from a book of ancient history too. I remember reading that, it was very disturbing.

Afterwards, her voice was breathy as she sang, “It pours… man, it pours.”
He closed in, as if to muffle her, keep others from hearing. Keep everyone from hearing, except himself.

*~*~*~*

Exactly one year minus fifteen days later, the District Council formally passed a law banning singing, writing and public performance of all “inappropriately historical” songs. A week passed before the first person was caught singing “California Dreamin’” within earshot of the Peacekeepers. The Kistner family—including the babies—passed by his humiliated form, spread-eagled inside an electronic cage, that day in the middle of the town square. He had been made to eat dieffenbachia leaves so he could not yell back at the verbal torments. At his release upon nightfall, thoroughly smeared with rotten garbage, the flippant singer dived for the nearest water fountain and drank till he could drink no more. He would never be caught singing again. With luck, he’d forget there ever was a place called California; or a place called Arizona, with its silly rainbow shades.
Ilya looked back, wondering if this had been her first memory.

Chapter Text

She had never been a claustrophobic person, and had no need for excessive levels of human contact. Still, the loneliness of the launching room, where she was given one final prep before being loaded into her pod, struck her. Her stylist’s maybe-encouraging smile seemed cold comfort. She didn’t want him to be the last person she’d see. She had been lucky, she supposed, to get one last glimpse of Keanu before he was similarly loaded. Mental images of her family swam into her head to reassure her. Mother, Father, Dasha…

Would her twin brother be next? He had three more years of fearful anticipation. And Dasha would be scared; he always feared reapings in a way she hadn’t. Nils was twelve; his name had only been added to the sorter once. Luckily they hadn’t needed tesserae this year, Father having gotten a nice raise from his latest gene splicing success at work. And Juliana, eight years old, having only her future to dread.

Mother was pregnant again, due this winter. I may not exist to see the baby. To them I will be only a story, a family memory.
… I never really told any of them I loved them.

Inside the sealed pod, no one could see the tear run down her cheek.
Especially Father. Rosalind, you bitch.
She gritted her teeth, wiping another tear out of her eye.
I trusted you. I never will again. If I survive this… I will get you.
She took a deep breath and stood up straight, letting her anger sustain her.
I must win… so I can make you pay.

Chapter Text

She felt lucky. She had her father’s cool, cerebral nature, not her mother’s flightiness. Not like Dasha, whose eyes lit up in the presence of everything pretty and meaningless. She’d go farther in her career than he ever would, she thought with smug satisfaction. Why, Father had already introduced her to his lab partner, a brilliant woman who liked to create new viruses and vaccines to cure them. The day Rosalind invited her to volunteer a few days a month watching her at work, had been the happiest day of her life.

Dasha could keep his flowers and his pictures of monarch butterflies… she had been doing her own experiments since she was young Nils’ age. Science—now that was beautiful. How else could anyone appreciate the wonder in a barren desert like District Five, unless they think of the science? All those minerals, metalloids, and organic compounds; and chemical structures of endless and fascinating variety. How so much could change with a single, microscopic alteration. Glutamic acid to valine separated healthy blood from sickle-cell blood. Even smaller than that, really… a single nucleotide, one tiny molecule that was little more than a speck of dust in the whole of the human body. And it marked the difference between going through life able to jump around and play; and collapsing flat on the ground, pale and gasping for air.

At least District Five had decent doctors. Some of the poorer districts weren’t so lucky. In District Eleven, for instance, they were known to throw deformed babies to the alligators because they couldn’t afford to care for them. Even Peacekeepers there often struggled to afford more than the basics.

Once, when Ilya was twelve, she asked her mother: “Do you ever want to work at a different place?”
Mother had blanched at that question.

“It’s not something we really ask each other, honey,” she said.

“But I’ve heard that in District Eleven a lot of them can’t take care of their babies, and don’t have a lot of people to help the mothers give birth. You’re really sweet, and great with kids, Mother. If you ever got tired of teaching, maybe you could go to District Eleven for a while and be a midwife?”

Then, as she saw the confused—almost frightened—look on her mother’s face, she quickly added: “Just for a while, just for a while.”

She dashed away after that, not knowing what to make of the sudden change in her mother’s mood; and feeling very much like she had done something wrong.

Chapter Text

As a rule, Keanu was confused by the feelings of those around him. But one thing he was sure of: he was a disappointment to his family.

It was as if he’d used up his allotted number of mistakes, years ago. So that with every faux pas, every miscalculation, every slip of the tongue he made now, he piled up another few cents of debt; dug another spoonful deeper into the massive hole he stood on the bottom of; tiny transgressions that individually mattered very little—but the problem was, he made the same mistakes every day. The hole he found himself in would never be filled. He’d always take a few seconds too long to respond, and ruin what could have been some marvelous witty banter. Drip.

He’d failed to get the right answer to his teachers’ question. Drip.

He sat in the corner, waiting for those around him to talk to him, to toss him the conversational ball. All around him, his classmates bounced ideas off each other, a lovely and efficient symphony of discussion and negotiation. Feebly, he tried to enter. No response. He tried a few more times to contribute; it was as if a breeze in a windstorm.
Another day in his life. Drip, drip, drip.

The girl with the light brown hair and the perfect posture, the perfect smile. Surrounded by friends, who affirmed her superior perspicacity. Lyra McClintock, the best student in school. No wonder he wasn’t being called on. There was too much light emanating from her and her friends. A brown dwarf didn’t stand a chance when in the same area as a blue supergiant.
Drip, drip. Fizzle.

Keanu shrank into himself, turned towards the back of the room, and dreamed of a desert and a rusty bomb tail.

Many minutes later, he emerged from the classroom, avoiding the professor’s eyes. Avoiding everyone’s eyes. He headed straight for the outside, into the blistering desert sun, toward an insignificant pile of garbage off in the distance.

He felt a rush of satisfaction once he touched the rusty can, the frayed and severed wires. This was where he belonged, on some long-lost trail; near a treasure trove of spent missiles. Some of them came from the Dark Days, but so many more were older than that… from several hundred years ago, in a period his history books said was known as the World Wars and the Cold War. The quaint designs of the permutation plugs and the pure titanium of the housing were real delights; made for testing, or perhaps exploration. So different from the alloyed reactor fusers of the later missiles, which were used during the Dark Days, and really were used to kill and maim and subdue. The innocent shrapnel with a lighter, less serious feel; the guilty shrapnel from the most recent wars, holding menace in its scraps.

He was no longer Keanu the cipher, the wallflower, the human dead end. He was Keanu, the missile expert and intrepid explorer.

Lyra McClintock is valedictorian this year. She’s going to move to the Capitol and get the best job of any of us.
But will she ever defuse a single bomb? Will she ever save someone’s life?

Chapter Text

“Excellent work,” said Professor Hollings, eyes lighting up with admiration. “How much more insulin does this new strain produce again?”

“Up to thirty percent more,” said Ilya, standing up straight. “The lowest has been twenty-two percent, and the highest nearly thirty-five; but on average about thirty.”

“Most excellent. Should I name it Escherichia coli var. kistneri?” the professor added, teasingly.

Ilya laughed. “No,” she said. “This is a horrible intestinal disease in everyday life; I have no wish to have that named after me.”

“But in your hands, it’s an efficient insulin-producing machine,” said Hollings. “You are certainly one of the youngest to ever achieve this… the creation of a new organism…”

“I learned from the best,” said Ilya. “I’ve worked in her lab since I was ten years old.”

“Rosalind Rothschild’s lab? The one with your father?”

“Yes,” said Ilya, now beaming. “First viruses, then bacteria… it was natural.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Almost fifteen. My birthday is in December.”

“You are certainly a finalist for the Mayor’s Award,” said Hollings. “At least if I have anything to say about it.” He paused, looking at her meaningfully. “You’d be my twelfth student, if so.”

“You’ve been a great teacher.”

“I’ve been very proud of you,” he said, shaking her hand.

Suddenly Ilya felt a pang of jealousy. “I wish I could beat Lyra McClintock. At something.”

“You’re in the top five at this school.”

“I want to be the best.”

Professor Hollings sighed. “Well, not everyone can be the best, you know that as well as anyone. “

“I want to be the best,” said Ilya, lifting her chin, “so I can go to the Capitol and do important work and help millions of people.”

She thought she saw a strange light flicker in the professor’s eyes before he said, “To work in the Capitol?”

“Yes. To leave this hot, dusty district and see the world. To see real snow for the first time in my life.”

“Leave District Five?” Ilya thought she saw the same strange expression on his face that she had seen on Mother, when she’d asked her if she wanted to go to District Eleven and be a midwife. “You know, Ilya… most people who move to the Capitol never come back.”

“Why not?”

Hollings gave a short, sharp laugh. “Why would anyone want to?” he said. “It’s the Capitol. It’s better than any of our districts. Why would you want to come back after that? That’s taking a step down after moving up in the world.”

Ilya thought for a moment. “I’d miss my family… my friends…”

“That’s a hard lesson sometimes we all must learn,” he said. “When people get a chance to better their station, sometimes they must leave their old lives behind.” He paused, and looked more closely at her. “Chances don’t come very often in Panem, Ilya. When you get a real chance—you take it.”

Ilya paused before asking, “What about other districts, then? What if I want to, say, see the ocean in District Four?”

Hollings frowned. “You wouldn’t last five minutes there. For starters, who in District Five can swim?”

She laughed.

“It’s not funny. You wouldn’t be fit for their jobs, you wouldn’t have the qualities they most like to see. Some of them in those other districts—“ his face squeezed in disgust—“may even beat you up or kill you for being different.”

“So it’s either stay in District Five, get the chance to move to the Capitol, or nothing?”

“Pretty much.”

He didn’t answer the question she really wanted him to answer—why he seemed so afraid. Why her mother had seemed the same way.
She decided not to press the issue. She had to start a paramyxovirus broth for today’s work, and it was notorious for decaying without proper supervision.

Chapter Text

Even Keanu’s scaled-back career choices had turned out to be unrealistic.

He always knew he was never going to be a top scientist. But the teacher exam: failed, due to personality mismatch. Oil worker? Not enough physical strength. Nuclear power plant operator? Missed “adequate” on the executive functioning test by only a little.

“You can take these tests again in a year,” said the labor representative; “but bear in mind there is a limit to how many times you can take them; and remember, we tend to have a particular set of strengths our whole lives.”

“What… you’re saying I can’t learn anything new later on?”

“I’m saying it’s best to stick to your strengths,” said the representative, friendly but firm. “You’ll be happiest working in a place that gibes with who you are. Find out what you’re good at, then stick to it.”

He felt his heart sinking into ice. “Well… what can I do?”

“In a few years, with some work on yourself, you might be able to get the nuclear operator job. But for now… it’s best if you pick one of the sanitation positions.”
“Clean up toxic waste?”

“Don’t think of it like that,” she said, smiling. “Think of it as building experience. Getting your foot in the door. Now, if you must excuse me, I have to see the next applicant.” She motioned him to the door. “Good luck, Mr. Chavan.”

Good luck. The words rang in his ears as the door closed.

Chapter Text

Ilya had never felt so impatient, or so excited, in her life. Her eyes were going to be out of focus for a while. But to see a biochemical reaction happening at its most basic level, in real time…

She had seen the white precipitate this morning in her viral broth, and cried out; raising the eyebrows of the junior lab assistants. After three weeks of ten-plus-hour days, all that tedious documentation, all that last-minute tweaking; it was finally on its way. And now she was glued to her electron microscope. Nothing was happening yet, though.
Don’t blink. Don’t blink.

It was a minute. It was an hour. A million years. Her eyes burned. Dry eyes—she needed to blink. Luckily nothing had changed during that second.

Then—she saw it. The first linkage of one amino acid to the next. The first building block to turning a primary structure into a secondary structure. Criss-cross, bridge and fold, slow to start and then faster and faster. Quickly, she lowered the magnification. The precipitate turned from white to buff beige, subtle and yet so significant; the color change fanning out from the center like a spider web.

“Rosalind!” she cried. “It’s working!”

Her mentor was there in seconds.

“Take a look,” said Ilya, sliding off her chair and allowing Rosalind to take her place. “Well, I’ll be…!” she said after a minute. “You’ve done it, Ilya!”

Ilya couldn’t stop herself from doing a little dance, and she didn’t care if anyone watched and disapproved. You didn’t get scientific breakthroughs every day.

“I can’t wait to tell Father,” she said.

“He’ll be very proud of you,” said Rosalind. “Now, all we have to do is type up the report—“at this, both woman and girl shared a groan—“and it’ll be ready to present to Mayor Mendelev.”

“Will I get an award?”

“Maybe we will.”

Ilya waited until her mentor had turned her back, before she asked: “Rosalind? Have you ever been to the Capitol?”

Rosalind didn’t seem startled (like Mother and Hollings had), but her pause was especially pregnant before she answered. “Only once, a long time ago.”

“What was it like?”

“Magnificent. Full of everything you could possibly dream of. I just wish I’d seen their labs, though. I’ve heard that as nice as ours is, it can’t compare to the ones in the Capitol.”

“That’s what everyone says… the Capitol is always, always better…”
Ilya was beginning to think that everyone had to say the Capitol was better. Just like everyone had to watch the Hunger Games, and had to put their name in the reaping jar until they were eighteen.

“But it’s true. The Capitol has the most resources, even more than us… so they have the best laboratories.” Rosalind paused for a moment. “District Three is supposed to have a pretty good lab, too; and maybe District Two as well. But some of the other ones don’t have one, they don’t do any scientific work at all.” Her face flickered with contempt.

“I’m glad I live in District Five, then,” said Ilya. “I’m glad I live in a smart district.”

“So am I. It’s so much more fun using our brains, than having to use our bodies.” Senior and junior scientist shared proud smiles. “Now, back to that report…”

Ilya felt her smile evaporate.

Rosalind laughed. “It’s only for a while…”

*~*~*~*

He wouldn’t have a job for a while, that was for sure. He didn’t want to work as a janitor, even though it was the only job he was a fit for.
At least being a loser meant others largely left him alone, to wander out amidst the missile fields.

One of these days, his parents would kick him out of the house. No problem: All he had to do was wait it out till his eighteenth birthday; then he would be free from reaping. Then he would go to the desert and eke out an existence there. He didn’t need much food; just live on what the tesserae brought, which in District Five and the other, more fortunate districts included complete vitamins and minerals. He would build a little shelter and venture out every day to dig for bombs, living his dream.

It didn’t feel like much, but at least he’d have his dignity.

Chapter Text

“Okay… here we go! Zolam time!” said Palmer Denisovich, seated to Dasha’s right. Taking the large plastic bowl off the table and placing it on the floor, he unscrewed the cap of the prescription bottle and poured in a stream of bright green capsules, landing like dark raindrops against a pile of white and pastel tablets.

“Zo-LAM. Zo-LAM,” Shruti Srinivasan chanted, leading the other dozen or so teenagers to chant with her. Then she changed it to, “QUIL-va, QUIL-va!” as she opened a second plastic bottle, pouring a bunch of tiny white oval pills into the bowl.

“Can you stop that chanting? It’s getting annoying,” said Dasha, now taking the bowl from Shruti and adding his bottle, a relatively small number of large reddish tablets.

“Aw, c’mon Dash, lighten up.”

“I’ll lighten up once we start taking this already. Hey, what’s all in it?”

“That, my dear Watson, is an excellent question,” said Warhol McMitchell, the party’s leader, with an air of grand confidence. “And no, Watson, I’m not talking about you,” he added to the freckled boy across from him.

“Stop saying Watson already! You’d better not be still using old Sherlock book references, Hol,” said Watson Curry, a disapproving look on his face. “No history.”

“Oh? What are you gonna do about it?” said Warhol with a sneer.

“I’ll tell my dad.”

Warhol and several other boys, including Dasha, laughed. “Oh, you’ll tell your dad! That’s soooooo scary.”

“I will tell him! He knows people in law enforcement.”

“Yeah, yeah, and I’ve got a date with Lyra McClintock next Saturday night,” said Warhol, fixing Watson with a gaze equal parts merriment and menace. “You know what’ll happen if you narc on us, Curry. So I’d watch your back.”

“Yeah, you’d better watch it,” said Shruti. “You’re not one hundred percent trustworthy. You’ve got to earn our trust back again.”

Watson backed off, defeated, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“At least you got some good Flavin, Watson. That works in your favor,” said Dasha. “Hey Hol… what did I put in again?”

“You put in Remtabs.”

“Ugh. Freaking horse pills.”

“Yeah, but they’re beauties,” said Palmer. “Adds just the right amount of edge.”

“Let’s not forget the Durox,” said Warhol. That’s going to be key… to help keep us from staying under too long. Whoa… I almost forget them!” Quickly he opened another bottle and poured in some black-and-yellow-striped capsules before stirring the mixture of pills with his fingers. When he finished, everyone sat cross-legged in a circle around the bowl, gazing at its inviting, multicolored contents.
“Are we ready?” said Warhol, putting his hands on his knees and surveying the other members of the circle.
Watson gulped. Palmer grinned.
“Ready,” said Dasha.

“Go!” said Warhol, and each teenager reached a hand out and grabbed a fistful of pills. One by one, heads leaned back and fingers dropped pale tablets and bright capsules into eager mouths. In a matter of minutes, the teenagers started to feel the changes: blurry vision, uncontrollable laughter, slurred speech.

“Orangy sky. Orangy sky!” cried Palmer, awed smile on his face.
Shruti giggled, in a way that sounded like what used to be called scat singing.
Warhol’s eyes drooped, and he sagged to the ground before abruptly rearing upward and bursting into laughter.

Dasha saw a blurry, reddish hue to his landscape. His head felt both feverish and relaxed. It was the Flavin that brought the warm feeling, and the Oxcam that brought the colors and shapes. Not sure about the others for now. He started to speak, not really hearing himself, sounding as if he were underwater. His eyes, out of focus, trained on the blonde outline of Fawn Cavendish’s head. Suddenly he closed the distance between them, and fumbled around with his lips, searching for hers.
He heard a whoop, possibly from Watson. Or was it Palmer? It sure wasn’t Warhol, lost in his merry blasting.

Fawn’s tongue slithered into his mouth, and Dasha eagerly sucked on it. He pulled the girl closer, and she giggled through their kiss.
Those dratted Remtabs. They got you feeling a little too… amorous. Fawn always liked them best. A little too much.

“My hump my hump my hump, lovely lady lumps!” slurred Fawn, and she pulled off her cardigan and then her tank top, exposing her satiny bra.
Dasha froze. This wasn’t part of his plan.

“My boob, my boob Dash!” she said, more insistently, trying to push her breast into his hand.
“No,” said Dasha, pulling back. “Not now.”

“Awww…. Daaaash!” Fawn whined, collapsing onto her right side. “I got lovely lumps. Lovely lumps…” She fondled her breasts through the satiny fabric for a bit before rolling onto her back and half-crying, half-giggling.

“Score, man!” said Palmer, sounding as if his tongue was too big for his mouth. Dasha saw a pink blur that might have been Palmer’s outstretched hand. Reaching out to smack it, he suddenly felt the floor tilt to one side, and fell over, sprawling into a babbling heap.