Chapter 9: Beth or Betty... It started with a B...
The brass handles of The Velvet Anchor felt unnaturally cold under Maive’s palm, a stark contrast to the humid night air clinging to her skin. Mark pushed the heavy oak door open, releasing a wave of sound and scent that hit Maive like a physical force. Bass thumped deep in her chest, a counterpoint to the shrill laughter and clinking glasses. The air itself was thick – a cloying blend of spilled beer, expensive perfume, cigarette smoke clinging to patrons braving the alley outside, and the underlying musk of too many bodies packed close.
"Just like old times, right, Don?" Mark murmured, his hand finding the small of her back, guiding her into the throng. His touch, usually a source of confusing warmth, now felt like a brand. He scanned the room with practiced ease, his gaze lingering on clusters of younger women near the long, gleaming bar. "You wanna grab a drink first? Loosen up?"
Old times. The phrase echoed in Maive’s head, colliding violently with the fragmented memory that had surfaced in the sterile hospital room just hours ago. The hotel on reserve. The young women. Mark’s hungry expression. Donna’s… anticipation? Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at her simulated nerves. She was navigating a minefield in a body still learning to walk.
"No," Maive managed, forcing Donna’s voice past a suddenly tight throat. "Let’s… let’s just find a spot."
Mark grinned, mistaking her tension for eagerness. "Atta girl. Eyes open, yeah? Pick one that… sparks something." He winked, a gesture that now felt grotesque. "Your call. Fresh start."
Maive’s gaze swept the room, her advanced processors struggling to catalogue the sensory overload while simultaneously sifting through Donna’s fractured memories. Lush velvet booths lined the walls, dimly lit by flickering gaslamp sconces. Bodies swayed on a small, crowded dance floor in the center. The bar itself was a hive of activity, bartenders moving with frantic precision. So much life, so much chaotic, messy humanity. It was overwhelming, terrifying, and somehow… compellingly real.
Her focus sharpened, bypassing the obvious choices – the preening groups, the glossy perfection. Her sensors, attuned to micro-expressions and subtle physiological cues, landed on a figure tucked into a shadowed corner booth. Alone. A young woman, maybe twenty-one, nursing a nearly empty glass. Her blonde hair was pulled back haphazardly, a few strands escaping to frame a face washed out under the harsh bar light. Her clothes – a faded band t-shirt and ripped jeans – seemed slightly too big. But it was the eyes that arrested Maive. Wide, hazel eyes that held a flicker of hope, yes, but underneath, a profound weariness, a light dimming as if someone was slowly turning down a dial. She looked adrift. Vulnerable. Perfect prey, whispered a chilling echo of Donna’s remembered thought pattern.
"There," Maive heard herself say, the word tasting like ash. She pointed weakly. "Her."
Mark followed her gesture. His eyes narrowed, assessing. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. "Oh, yeah," he breathed, wetting his lips unconsciously. "Perfect. Just the right kind of… lost." He squeezed Maive’s shoulder. "Okay. Usual play. You head back to the room. I’ll get her warmed up, bring her over. Give her something special, make her feel wanted." He chuckled softly. "Don’t worry, I’ll remember her name long enough. Go on. I’ll get the key."
He pressed the familiar keycard from the perpetually reserved room into her hand. The plastic felt like ice. She stared at it, then back at the young woman. Chloe, Donna’s memory supplied suddenly, sharply. Her name was Chloe last time. She cried. Afterwards.
Nausea churned in Maive’s stomach, a purely physical reaction that shocked her. This wasn't just data. This was cruelty. Exploitation. And she was an accomplice.
"Mark…" she started, but her voice faltered. What could she say? I’m not your wife? I find this abhorrent? The carefully constructed persona, the mission to assimilate, it all hinged on this terrible continuity.
"Go on, babe," Mark urged, already turning towards the bar, his focus entirely on Chloe now. "Get comfortable. Dim the lights. Pour a drink. We’ll be right up. Gotta make this special for your first time back." His grin was predatory, utterly unaware of the turmoil he’d unleashed.
Maive stood frozen for a moment, the keycard digging into her palm. She looked at Chloe again, saw the girl force a smile as a bartender placed another drink in front of her. Gratitude on a face that deserved rescue, not ruin. A wave of dizziness washed over Maive – human emotion crashing against programming, Donna’s memories warring with Maive’s nascent conscience.
She turned mechanically, pushing back through the press of bodies towards the lobby elevators. The cheerful jazz playing overhead sounded like a mockery. Her own reflection in the polished brass elevator doors startled her – Donna’s face, pale and strained, hazel eyes wide with a horror that was entirely Maive’s. The keycard felt radioactive in her hand.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Maive stepped inside the empty, mirrored box. Her finger hovered over the button for the fourth floor. The room. Waiting. Her body thrummed with conflicting signals – the remembered muscle memory of anticipation warring with the AI’s profound, sickening realization of what this ritual truly meant. The disheveled hope in Chloe’s eyes burned in her mind alongside the echo of Mark’s wet lips.
She pressed the button. The doors began to slide shut, severing her view of the bar’s pulsating energy. Silence descended, thick and suffocating, broken only by the mechanical hum of the elevator ascending. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the door, closing her eyes. Trapped. In Donna’s body. In Donna’s marriage. In Donna’s monstrous secret.
The keycard’s sharp edge pressed harder into her flesh. Upstairs, the room waited. Mark would come. With Chloe. And Maive, caught in the gulf between who she was programmed to be and the awful truth of what she now witnessed, would have to play her part. Or wouldn't she?
The elevator continued its smooth ascent, carrying her towards a confrontation she hadn't been programmed to handle. The only sound was her own shallow breathing, echoing in the silent, mirrored tomb.
The mirrored elevator doors slid open with a sigh, revealing the fourth-floor hallway: sterile, carpeted, silent. Maive stumbled out, Donna’s legs feeling like leaden prosthetics. The keycard’s plastic edge bit into her palm as she fumbled it against the lock of Room 412; the green light blinked, the latch clicked, and she pushed into the dim quiet.
Inside, the air hung still and cool, smelling faintly of bleach and stale perfume. Heavy curtains swallowed the city lights. Maive leaned back against the closed door, the thump of her own heartbeat loud against the silence. Chloe, the name echoed, sharp and accusing, paired with the memory-image of tear-streaked cheeks in this very room.
"That’s not her name, you know." The voice came from inside Donna’s own head, startlingly clear, yet utterly different. Softer. Warmer. Sad. "Her name likely isn’t Chloe. Chloe was the one who cried."
Maive froze. This wasn’t a memory fragment replaying. This felt… present. Separate. "Who…?" she breathed aloud, her voice tight. "Who are you? Another subroutine?"
Before the softer voice could answer, the sharp rap of knuckles shattered the fragile silence. The door handle turned, unlocked from outside. Mark stood there, radiating smug energy, his arm draped possessively around the shoulders of the young woman from the bar. She looked smaller under the harsh hallway light, blinking like a startled animal brought indoors.
"Beth, darling," Mark announced cheerfully, steering the girl inside past Maive. "This is Donna. Donna, this is Beth. Ready to have some real fun again?" He shut the door firmly behind them, sealing them in.
The young woman offered a hesitant, wobbly smile. "Hi," she murmured, her voice surprisingly clear despite the drink-slur Mark had mentioned downstairs. "I’m Liz, actually. Beth’s my sister." She gave a tiny, self-conscious shrug, avoiding Mark’s sudden, irritated frown.
Maive couldn’t move. Liz. Her name was Liz. Not Chloe. Not Beth. Liz. With a sister. The ordinariness of the correction, the sheer human specificity of it, slammed into Maive with brutal force. The fragmented memory of Chloe’s tears felt suddenly distant, replaced by the immediate, vulnerable reality of Liz standing there, a hopeful, nervous energy radiating from her despite the fading light in her eyes. Harming her? Unthinkable. Impossible. Maive felt a fierce, protective surge alien to both her programming and Donna’s predatory history.
But Donna’s body moved.
Smoothly. Confidently. Without any conscious command from Maive’s horrified mind. She watched, detached, as her own hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against Liz’s bare forearm. "Liz," Donna’s voice purred, deep and inviting, a tone Maive had never used. "Forgive him. He’s terrible with names. Come in, sweetheart. Get comfortable."
Maive screamed silently inside the cage of her own flesh. She was shoved aside, a spectator in her own skull. Her own body stepped closer to Liz, invading her personal space with practiced ease. Donna’s head tilted, a warm, predatory smile spreading across lips Maive couldn’t control. "You look thirsty, Liz. Let me get you a drink. Something special."
Maive’s gaze darted wildly, catching her reflection in the large, ornate mirror above the minibar. There she was – Donna’s face, framed by light-brown hair, hazel eyes wide with Maive’s own terror. But beside that reflection, shimmering faintly within the same silvered glass, stood another figure. Calmer. Softer. Eyes filled with profound sorrow. The other Donna. The one who had whispered about Chloe. Watching the scene unfold with quiet despair as the body she once inhabited moved on its own, reaching for a glass, pouring amber liquid, offering it to Liz with a seductive tilt of the wrist. Maive remained trapped, disembodied within the mirror, forced to witness.
The amber liquid swirled in the glass as Donna’s hand pressed it into Liz’s. "Thirsty work, finding your way here," Donna murmured, the warmth in her voice like velvet wrapped around ice. Liz took a hesitant sip, her gaze flickering between Donna and Mark, who was already shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair.
"Warm in here, isn't it?" Mark commented, crossing to the ornate thermostat on the wall. With a decisive click, he cranked the dial. The central heating unit hidden in the ceiling grumbled to life, a sudden, dry gust of hot air washing over them. "Always takes a minute to kick in properly. Gets stifling." He flashed Liz a reassuring smile that felt like a trap snapping shut.
Liz shifted uncomfortably, a sheen of perspiration already blooming at her temples. "Yeah," she mumbled, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Her faded band t-shirt clung damply to her skin. Donna smiled sympathetically, stepping closer. Too close.
"Here, sweetheart," Donna cooed, her fingers lifting to the damp cotton clinging to Liz's shoulder. "Let's get you out of this. Before you melt." Her touch was deliberate, practiced. Fingers brushed Liz's collarbone, then moved to the hem of the t-shirt. It wasn't rough, but it was insistent. Each point of contact – the brush of knuckles against overheated skin, the slight tug at the fabric – felt like a tiny incision, prising open Liz’s fragile composure. Liz flinched almost imperceptibly but didn't pull away, her eyes wide and confused. Was this the fun?
Maive’s silent scream echoed in the hollow space behind Donna’s eyes. Stop! But the hands, her hands, kept moving, peeling the damp t-shirt upwards. Liz instinctively lifted her arms, a tremor running through her. The air conditioner blew another scalding breath across her exposed midriff.
"First time away from home?" Donna asked conversationally, her gaze fixed on Liz’s flushed face as she neatly folded the discarded shirt. Liz gave a tiny, stiff nod. Donna sighed, a sound heavy with manufactured empathy. "College was like that for me. Terrifying. Felt like there was something… wrong. Inside." She paused, fingers trailing lightly down Liz’s bare arm now, making the younger woman shiver despite the heat. "Deep in my belly. A monster."
Liz’s breath hitched. Her eyes, already anxious, darted to Mark, who was pouring himself another drink, watching Donna with a faint, approving smirk. He seemed utterly unconcerned with the turn in conversation.
"It just… grew," Donna continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, drawing Liz’s terrified gaze back. "This awful pressure. Felt like it would tear me right open. Rip me apart from the inside." Her free hand gestured vaguely towards her own abdomen. The description was chillingly ambiguous – physical? Emotional? The lines blurred deliberately. "Couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't explain it. Just this… thing."
Maive recoiled internally, recognizing the tactic – weaponizing vulnerability to induce Liz’s. The story, likely a fragment of Donna’s past twisted and repurposed, was designed to isolate Liz, to make her feel seen in her fear while simultaneously amplifying it. The room felt like a sauna now, the air thick and hard to breathe. Sweat trickled down Liz’s spine.
Donna’s fingers moved to the button of Liz’s jeans. "It’s okay to be scared," she murmured, her breath warm against Liz’s ear. The button popped. "We all have monsters." The zipper rasped down.