TCB: The Red Shoes

by Madrigal Baroque

She moves like the diva

She stumbled on the step down from the maglev transport. It was hard to keep her footing, such as it was, but she managed. None of the passengers even looked in her direction. A couple of people waiting at the transtop glanced over at her, then shoved past to climb aboard. No one even asked if she was okay. Nobody cared. Not that she would have expected such consideration. Everyone was too busy looking out for their own interests to bother with anyone else's concerns. She couldn't blame them, and she wasn't bitter about it. Really she wasn't. She didn't want any help anyway.

She made it to the cracked and broken sidewalk on her mismatched crutches. Her left leg would bear most of her slight weight, but the right one had healed crooked and was several inches shorter. She couldn't properly bend that knee anymore, and the ankle had healed so askew the foot was practically clubbed.

Clunk, clunk, hop with her left foot. Clunk, clunk, hop. The left crutch didn't have padding, and there were blisters under her arm, but it was still better than crawling. Barely.

Clunk, clunk, hop. Clunk, clunk, hop.

Neither crutch had a rubber tip, and when the right one suddenly skidded to one side she nearly fell sprawling to the sidewalk. She barely managed to keep her balance, balance well-honed from years of diligent practice. She almost dropped the crutch, but she kept hold of the hand grip and reseated it under her right arm. She stood still a moment, making sure she was stable and as sure on her feet (well, her foot) as she ever got these days, then steeled herself against the pain she knew would recommence and started off again.

Clunk, clunk, hop. Clunk, clunk, hop.

Her destination rose up before her, a pre-Collapse structure not quite tall enough to qualify as a skyscraper. Many of the dirty windows were cracked, some were broken, yet it was still the most intact structure for blocks.

She paused to catch her breath and raised her head up to read the tall white letters, clean and intact and newly placed.

SAN FRANCISCO CONVERSION BUREAU

Setting her jaw, she got going again. After all, the mountain was definitely not going to come to Mohammed no matter how much it hurt the legendary Prophet to move.

Clunk, clunk, hop. Clunk, clunk, hop.

The door opened inward, thankfully, so she didn't have to wait for someone to open it. She might have had to wait until dark.

There was nowhere to sit in the large waiting area. No big surprise there. With a global population of nineteen billion plus, accommodating members of the general public was not a high priority. Or any priority at all, really.

She balanced as best she could on her crutches; the floor had obviously been freshly retiled, and the linoleum had much less traction than the sidewalk.

When her left crutch slipped while bearing her full weight, she pitched off-balance too quickly to compensate. There was a moment–that awful split second right before gravity takes over and pulls an unbalanced body down–when she inwardly cursed herself for being a stupid, useless, clumsy–

Hands caught her, steadied her. "You okay?"

Startled, she glanced at the elderly man and the plump matron who had prevented her fall. The woman picked up the fallen crutch and placed it back in her hand. She said again, "You okay, honey?"

"I–y-yes, thank you." She looked at both of them. "Thank you so much." She even managed to sound like she meant it. Maybe some part of her did.

"I think we're all going to Clinic 42," the old man said. "Could you use a little help getting there? They got chairs to sit in."

"I don't want to trouble you…" Her cheeks were flaming as she struggled to get her crutches straight–only to have them both slip and clatter to the floor. The gentleman caught her as she fell again, and the woman rescued the crutches.

"Allow me, baby girl." The old man scooped her up in his arms and headed with a steady stride towards the stairway. The woman followed after, carrying the crutches.

Her eyes stung with tears and she tried hard to blink them back. Tears of shame, of frustration, of hopeless gratitude. "I'm sorry–i really don't mean to be such a bother–"

"Bother?" The man chuckled with good humor. "No bother a'tall, sugar. You ain't no bigger'n a minute."

"We were going this way anyhow," the woman added with a smile.

When they reached the fourth floor, the woman held the door as the man carried her inside. There were some curious stares, and she felt her cheeks flush, but still she said nothing. The old man quickly settled her down at one of the applicant tables, and the woman carefully leaned her crutches beside her, giving her shoulder a reassuring pat as the two of them left her sitting there.

She looked after them, but the crowd quickly swallowed them up. No names had been exchanged. Part of her wanted to call them back, to thank them again for their help, to get to know such nice people. But another part of her, the louder part of her, resented the fact that she'd needed help, the help of common favela dwellers she wouldn't have deigned even to notice a few months ago. She started filling out the application, wiping at her wet face to erase the lingering evidence of the encounter.

***

"Comminuted fracture of both fibulas, diagonal fracture of the left tibia, comminuted compound fracture of the right tibia, segmented compression fracture of both patellas, spiral displaced malleolar fracture of the right …" The doctor looked at her over the rims of her glasses. "Wow, Ana, somebody fucked you up."

"Yeah, I was there." Anastasia Walova (born Analethia Washington) gave Roselyn Pastern a lopsided grin. "A couple of bullyboys with lead pipes will do that."

She waited for Pastern to ask why she'd been attacked, but the query never came. The doctor set her electronic clipboard down. "These injuries were never set properly. Did you even try to go to a hospital?"

"I didn't have much choice on where to go. I'm not even sure who took me to the clinic. I was too busy screaming my guts out to notice." The two goons must have had explicit orders not to let her die. Maybe they even had instructions to take her to the crappiest clinic in San Francisco, knowing she wouldn't get adequate treatment there.

Pastern's lips were a hard, narrow line. Her hands fisted on her knees. "Well, whoever treated you–and I use that term very loosely–didn't know fuck-all what they were doing." She reached out a gloved hand and stroked her fingers down the lumpy, misshapen thing that used to be her patient's right leg. Ana cringed, not because it hurt–it only hurt when she was trying to walk–but because a third person was touching her today, when she hadn't felt another's hand on her since she'd left the hospital a month ago. Certainly not on her ruined legs. "Needless to say, all this will be fixed during Conversion."

"I know. That's why I came here." Ana saw no reason to lie. "Well, that and the fact that I have nowhere else to go."

""Mm." Pastern was paging through what must be Ana's medical history. "It doesn't look like the clinicians did their due diligence in your treatment." She gestured at Ana's legs. "This is gross incompetence. If the whole damn world weren't coming to an end…well, I have a few strings I could pull. We could have those incompetent quacks locked up for life, and get your legs fixed by someone who knows what they're doing." The doctor shook her head. "But there isn't much point now. In a few years, none of us will be here."

Ana forced herself to look at the broken sticks that once thrilled audiences. ""Doctor…even if there were time…even if they fix my legs so I can walk…it still wouldn't be enough. I would never be able to go back to the stage."

"Stage? Oh, yes, of course, you're a dancer."

"I was the prima ballerina for the Barishnikov troupe. I started dancing at the age of three and for the last seventeen years I've fought and clawed and pirouetted my way from the corps all the way to the top. I've never done anything else, and I wouldn't know how. Dancing…dancing is all I know. It isn't what I do. It's who I am.""

"I've heard that there is dancing in Equestria…" Pastern looked thoughtful. "I'm not sure that ballet is a thing, but–"

"Listen, Doctor." Ana sat up, swinging her legs off the table, trying not to wince as her ruined muscles and tendons protested. "Equestria is a chance at a new life for me. I don't want to die with this planet. I'll learn what I have to when I become a pony. If I'm an Earth pony, I'll join a farm and grow things. If I'm a unicorn, I'll learn how to do magic. If I'm a pegasus, I'll fly and make weather. And I'll still dance, with all four legs." Her dark eyes flashed with some of her old spirit, the spirit Camille's bastards had tried to beat out of her. "Who knows? Maybe I'll introduce Equestria to pliés and pirouettes."

Pastern smiled at her. "Somehow, Anastasia, I just bet you will."

There was a knock at the door. "Doc? It's Beth."

Pastern gave Ana her clothes so she could dress. "What do you want?"

"Well, to come in, duh." It was the receptionist from the front desk. Ana struggled into her blouse and pulled on her skirt as quickly as she could.

Pastern quirked an eyebrow. "What's the password?"

"Uhm..haycakes?"

"Try again."

"Fescue fritters!"

"That was last week's. One more chance."

"Bitch!"

"Ding! We have a winner!" Pastern winked at Ana, who was now more or less fully clothed, and went to open the door. "Hey, Beth, where'd you get that from? I just asked for a decent pair of crutches."

Beth came in pushing a somewhat antiquated but perfectly serviceable wheelchair. "Well, I asked that new guy, the one who's so good at requisitions. The tall Flemish blond?"

"Actually he's a tall Finnish blond, if you're talking about Alexi."

"Whatever. Anyway, I asked if he could find some crutches for our new arrival, and he said he thought he could do better. Next thing I know, he's riding this thing down the hall at full tilt, singing some old-ass song at the top of his lungs about some guy called Elmo being on fire, or something." Beth shrugged and set the brakes on the wheels. "Anyway, this should be easier to work than a pair of sticks with handles."

"Right. And since it's only until your Conversion, Ana…can you deal with this?"

Ana stared at the chair, marveling quietly at how a bunch of strangers had done so much more for her in less than one day than anyone had ever done for her in…well, ever…and without expecting anything from her in return.

A wheelchair was a luxury she hadn't been able to afford. It was a miracle. Using that meant it wouldn't hurt to move around anymore. She wouldn't have to worry about falling and having to reclaim her crutches and crawl to something she could use to pull herself up while trying not to scream as her legs became twisted sticks of agony…or bear the intense humiliation of someone having to pick her up.

Except…"Thank you so much, but I don't…I don't know how to use that."

"No problem. There's no motor, it's easy. Come on, sit down and I'll show you the way Alexi showed me." Beth helped Ana to the chair and demonstrated the function of the wheel lock. "When you unlock the brakes, you just push the wheels with your hands. With practice you can turn and back up with no trouble. Your arms might be a little sore if you overdo it at first, so take it easy till you get used to it."

"Thanks, Beth. Tell Alexi he earned his Pony Scout badge today." Pastern stripped off her gloves and tossed them and Ana's discarded paper gown into the incinerator bin. "Do you have Ana's room assignment yet?"

Beth stepped behind the chair and held the handles to steady it as Ana made herself comfortable. "Well, she could have her pick of rooms if she wants to bunk by herself."

"I'm fine with that," Ana said quickly. She was sort of tired of being fussed over and was hoping for some quiet time. She also needed to use the bathroom.

But Pastern shook her head. "No can do. Regulations state that an applicant with special needs has to be paired with someone able-bodied. Them's the rules."

Beth bit her lip. "Mm…well, Lilac doesn't have a roomie at the moment. I'm sure she'd be glad to accommodate us."

"Great, that's great!" Ana didn't want any more debate. She really, truly had to pee, and she could easily ditch this mysterious roomie at a later date. She didn't need anyone "able-bodied". She'd been taking care of her own crippled ass for weeks. But she was really tired of having decisions made for her. They meant well, she realized that, but dammit, enough was enough.

Pastern glanced at the wall chronometer. "Okay, I have to see the next applicant. Go get settled, Ana, and if you need anything–"

"Thank you, Doctor!" And Ana was grateful, but she was also within one unclench of having an accident. She tried to navigate the chair towards the door and rammed into the table with a rattle.

"Let me show you to your room, Ana." Beth took hold of the handles and steered her out the door. Ana took her hands off the wheels and held onto the armrests, her teeth gritted. More unasked-for help. This was embarrassing. She'd have to learn how to drive this thing quick. Damned if she'd let herself be pushed around like a baby in a carriage.

She thought of asking Beth to stop by a toilet on the way, but thought better of it. Beth would probably offer to help her maneuver out of the chair, and in truth she'd probably need it. If she was going to fall and piss all over herself, she'd rather do it in private. She'd just have to make this Lilac whoever understand that she didn't need anyone's help.

***

Author's Note:

Ana is embittered and in a lot of pain. But she doesn't want your pity.

I really like the staff of Clinic 042. Thanks to my sis Chatoyance for letting me have them over for a visit.

(Spoilers below for Chatoyance's stories, particularly Recombinant 63:

In case you couldn't tell, Doc Pastern is furious about the woefully inadequate treatment received by Ana. She wants so desperately to make it right.

There are many things in her past that she can't put right, so she wants to rectify every mistake and mistreatment that she can.

She's not being controlling or manipulative. To steal a concept from the MCU's Black Widow, she's trying to get rid of some of the red in her ledger.

Comments

[Chatoyance]

Some comments on the opening chapter.

This hits me especially since I broke my wrist. Because of the nature of the break, such injuries never completely are the same; my wrist is subtly wrong. 10 degrees of angle displacement is not crippling, especially since I have always been hypermobile, but it bends wrong now, like the curve of a fork, and I will never move that hand as liquidly as I once did. That hand... won't dance, so to speak, ever again. And I was overly proud of what motions I could do with it, so Ana's issues speak to me.

I have only one (slight) issue - in this genre, Pastern and everyone in the Bureau knows the world is ending. Everybody on earth is going to straight-up die in eight years if they don't go pony. I have to assume the doc's issues with fairness must be outweighing her annihilation salience a bit there, with the talk of fixing Ana's legs medically. I mean, she could only hope to use such repaired legs for less than a decade before she had to trade them in no matter what.

[Madrigal Baroque]

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I think maybe the copy of Ros in my head was so incensed by not only the brutal attack on Ana but the apparently deliberate mishandling of her medical treatment that she wanted to get it fixed so that Ana could choose to go pony for the right reasons, not because she had no other choice.

I could have been wrong, of course