fleetlogs | THE EDITED PHERES LOG (third times a charm)

THE EDITED PHERES LOG (third times a charm)

=> PHERES: Abscond.

=> FLEETBOUND POST. [refiningSpacetime - FIN]
=> MARDUK: Call your guide. [FIN]
=> RICCIN: Retrieve the damsel in distress. [FIN]
=> HINNOM: Lead him home. [FIN]
=> FLEETBOUND POST. [activatingAggro- FIN]
=> SIPARA: Fetch your dumb moirail. [FIN]
=> PHERES: Wake up. [FIN]

SUMMARY: Taking drinks from strangers is generally a bad idea. Pheres needs to be picked up from a party, but life is hard when your moirail is out of town and all of your friends are terrible. Luckily, there's always Fleetbound!

WARNINGS: None! Except for Pheres being thoroughly depressing in Lead him home.

THIS HAS BEEN FINALLY EDITED. For like the third time. Due to POV-switching shenanigans, you may occasionally encounter weird shifts / incorrect verb pluralisation at points that I missed in switching from 3rd person to 2nd person POV. Sorry! :c

For the most part, though, typoes should be fixed and continuity is now more accurate!

ALSO: Follow the story through the links above to ensure you're reading the correct, edited threads, please and thank youu

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If it was anyone else, then you'd just fucking leave them. The sun is up and that means it's entirely too damn late to be up, and besides that, the punchline to this sort of self-made disaster tends to be hilarious as fuck: the way that kids always come into Carnival limping after a long day of festivities, their faces burnt black and horns peeling like a testament to their own stupidity, is one of the main highlights of service.

But it's Pheres, your favorite hatepal's moirail, and these days, chances to fuck with Sipara are few and far between. The closer you get to Ascension, the more you're chained to Shepherd's crook like a beast in her herds. And even when Sipara deigns to be around - because she can't just sit her ass down, like a normal fucking troll - she's playing hard-to-get.

You've tried near everything, and she still acts like none of the shit you sling can even reach her.

It stopped being infuriating sweeps ago, and now it's just fucking awful. You know her buttons better than yours, but no matter how much you push, she just doesn't give a fuck.

But if there's one thing you know about your nubby-horned pitchpal, it's that the only thing she hates more than the Carnival is people fucking with her quadrants. Culling the last rustblood she was courting didn't do shit but send her squalling to Myrrha, so that's right out. But helping this new one...

Well, the way that Sipara's going to get her bulge in a knot over the idea of a Mirthful saving her moirail while her chump ass is indisposed is too delicious to pass by. Even though the sun is bright and your skin feels like peeling just thinking about it, the warm, vindictive satisfaction of knowing this'll get her attention is what finally gets you out the door.

The heat of the day hangs heavy on your shoulders as you make your way to the coordinates Pheres sent you, but lucky for you, the sunlight can't permeate the oiled cotton of the suncloak. It's expensive enough that it better: the only reason your hiveblock entrance even lets you out during the day is that you blew half a sweep's allowance on it.

(Messiahs forbid Imperial property get a fucking sunburn. You'd think that the medicullers were your lusus, for all the wicked shit they wax on about health and safety. But whatever: not like you've got shit else to spend it on.)

Everyone with the slightest bit of thoughtink in their pan is inside, asleep or trying, and so the only sound outside is the familiar contempt of Liyiji's pre-recorded voice, rasping through your speakers as he reads off directions: cross the street. Follow the block on straight. Go left. The only people outdoors are a bunch of worthless panrots: a few uncovered greenbloods, their skin damp with perspiration, two bluebloods huddled under a shared suncloak, a rust ducked awkwardly into the shadow of their lusus, their skin already reddening in the light. The city is quiet as a churchmouse, and with none of the usual sounds of voices and violence echoing through the streets, it makes the walk - meant to be a quick jaunt, no more than twenty or thirty minutes - feels like it's taking forever.

You're just considering turning around and going home when the green spire of the communal hivestem comes into view.

It's not as shitty as you'd expected, when Myrrha said Pheres was at some partyhive. Sure, the coords were located firmly in the algaeblood's series of lawnrings, but you pictured something real fucking low: saffrons and high yellows, olives that only just barely qualify. How else would a rustblood get into the party?

But while the surface of the hive is by no means new, it's durable, the skin of the fleshwalls mottled and light in places where the chrysalis looks renewed. All the ports have their glass tinted midblood dark, and the front stoop actually has an awning. It's nothing compared to your hiveblock - Church-owned and maintained by a steady flock of drones - but it's definitely green.

And a high fucking green to boot. The walls aren't even lathered in olive paint: it's all jade and teal, the sort of midbloods that're brushing toes with acceptability. Weird as fuck that he managed to score a way in, but maybe that's just what a big rack gets you.

(If he came in anon, you're fucking leaving.)

There's a muddy shape on the front stoop, a long splash of languid monochrome against the hive's green stonework. It's hard to tell at first if it's a troll or trash - but then the sun shifts and the lump shifts with it, a careful sprawl that keeps them under the awning's shade, and there's no mistaking the curly orange horns, or the flash of white at the tops.

You should probably holler, make sure he knows you're here. But you're kind of curious as to how wasted he is, so you walk up, careful and quiet as if you were coming up for Carnival's tithe, and you let your shadow fall over him instead.

It'll be interesting to see how long it'll take him to notice.

Edited 2015-03-28 22:18 (UTC)

When push comes to shove, Sipara is probably your favorite person on the entire planet.

You don't usually tell her that. Your moirail is dear and near to you, but her head's already swollen as an inflatable plastic device, and you don't like to make it any bigger. Pride is a dangerous thing for lowbloods, and Sipara's already arrogant enough to make a blueblood blush.

Sometimes it's enough to make you hate her. One night, Sipara's going to get herself culled, and you'll only find out when nights have passed and her name never turns red. But the fact she's so easily detestable is why you pity her instead, and right now, with your pride smarting from your conversation with HH, it seems like a keen time to reaffirm that she feels the same.

She's being a prat about playing along, though.

"Dude," she laughs, her voice staticky and rough through your huskphone's speakers, "you are, like, so drunk. So, so, drunk. Holy shit. How many drinks did you have?"

You shrug. "Only a few," you say, and it's not like you're lying, not really. Your glass was only empty a handful of times this morning, and everyone knows refills don't count! She's eyeing you like that's suspicious, though, so you add: "Ah. Not - not more than usual!"

"Shit, man, that's like, not helpful at all?" She clicks her tongue against her teeth, shaking her head. Sipara looks exhausted, but true to her word, she's stayed up even despite the threads of light shining in past her tattered curtains. (She's staying at another one of her slums, and you wish she'd do what you say for once, and take the caegars for a decent oversolar room. She deserves it!) "Whatever. Look, it's been like, two hours since this sparking shit started."

"And I thi~ink," she drawls, squinting, "you gotta be starting to peak."

You can't feel the sparks: only a few unlucky psionics can actually feel the effects of their own auras when they start zapping away, and thank heavens, you're not one of them. But if you hold a hand under your bottom horns, you can see the liquid drop of light fall onto your skin and scatter.

A few seconds after the first drop hits, a second falls. You blow out your cheeks and shake off your hand, watching it dissolve in the air.

"Okay, so, according to Troogle, and my own fine-ass library of medical feeds -"

"Your library?" you interrupt. With anyone else, it'd be rude, but that's just a part of talking to Sipara: if she thinks she can walk over you, she will, and she'll blame you for making it easy. "I found them for you, didn't I? I think - they should be -" You're stumbling over your words, trying to find the right one, and you roll your eyes, nose wrinkling with exasperation. "Ahhh. It's only fair to call it our library."

"Fuck you, dude, I said mine." It's too dark to see her grin, but that's alright: you can hear the amused rumble in her voice, and oh, it's impossible not to chuff a laugh back. She's so mean to you! (She's so awful, and you pity her so much.) "Now hush. Okay, so, it looks like some asshole probs slipped you a honeypill. Now, those things are mostly sopor. Like, at least ninety percent?"

"But there's honey, too, which's causing your little lightshow. Shit's fine with flatscans, just makes us all compliant, but with psionics -"

She pauses dramatically, her ears up and her eyes bright, and you can practically feel her impatience. It's an old game. She's waiting for you to say something, do something, and you open your mouth to oblige -

- and just like always, she barrels on over you. The way you hiss is just routine, but the flash of teeth and the way the skin bunches under her eyes is completely genuine. "It makes you all, you know, sparky," she says, snapping her fingers, and her voice is crisp with amusement. "It should only last another hour or two, though. Some fuckers were saying it took six, but like..."

She shrugs, leans in close to the camera. Too close! For a moment, the screen is filled with the sight of her curled lips and filed sharp teeth. "That was just sparkplugs talking," she says, her voice drab and contemptuous. She's never liked psionics very much, and she's never bothered to hide it. "Like, they're practically fucking flatscans. You burn like, way faster than that."

She's close enough to the microphone that you can hear the rasp of her breath through the speakers. If you closed your eyes, you could pretend that she was sitting next to you, claws working through the tangles in your hair as she talked, like the two of you settle in every time the moons align and you're in the same place for more than an hour.

"I think you've got an hour, maybe two." She straightens up, her voice lightening, and the illusion is shattered. The cold, craggy stone under you is not her rough wooden floors, and the only thing in your hair is a particularly obtuse ladybug.

"Pheres?" Her eyebrows are down, and she sounds almost worried, but that's silly. Sipara never worries about anything. That's your job. "You still with me, babe?"

"Yeah," you say, breathing out. You are so tired, and all you really want is a warm floor and your moirail. One out of two isn't bad. "An hour. Okay. That's - haah - fine. I can do an hour. That's only.. oh." You pause. "Sixty minutes? Not very long at all."

"Right! So, like, don't fall asleep. C'mon, dude, you look like you're drowsing right now. Sit the fuck up."

With a huff, you oblige, pulling yourself up on an elbow, and then pushing up the rest of the way with a palm. Or at least, you start to: halfway up, still slouched, your head cants to the side, and your horns slam hard into something that definitely wasn't there a moment ago.

You can't hear shit of what the rusties saying: the huskphone's volume is dialed low, and the maroonblood's voice is pitched all low, nasal and soft as the drone of the psirunners in the distance. No matter how you cant your hearchutes, the buzz of words all up and refuse to decipher.

("We're not concerned about your hearing," is all the worthless skinflints tell you, when you try and bring it up at your appointments, like listening is just some fucking lark you're hankering after. Bastards.)

But it doesn't matter if you can make horn or tail of some rusties conversation. It can't be that interesting, not even when you recognise the familiar cadence of Sipara's husky voice, and after only a minute or two, you're tired of standing around and waiting to be noticed. You do enough of that at fucking church: you're not doing it for some trashed shitblood.

You're just in the process of deciding if you're going to clear your throat, or just kick the shit out of him when the conversation cuts off. Pheres straightens up, and too quick for you to avoid, those oversized top horns are slamming into your knees.

You don't buckle. For one, the railing is right there, and he's not moving very fast: the sheer size of his horns is all that makes your walking joints shake, because as soon as he hits you, he's reeling back, chin jerking up and away like a startled cluckbeast.

Or at least, he's trying. It's instinct that has one paw wrapping tight around the rail next to you, and the other snatching hold of one of the offending horns. This kid is tiny as fuck, and you've got reach: it isn't hard, once you've got a grip, to try and haul him to his feet a good distance from you.

"And a good fucking morning to you, too," you snap.

Pheres is sitting up, and then the next thing you know, there's an oomph - and a black-gloved hand hauling him up by a horn.

You don't need to see the yellow trim to know who it is: you'd recognise Riccin's ugly-ass voice even if you were deaf as them.

You are going to fucking murder them next time you come to the city - and then you're going to kill Myrrha for sending them. (This is what you get for being nice to a fucking greenblood. Their pans are too warm to preserve and too cold not to fucking crack with dumbass ideas.) You shake your husktop, but the camera screen won't move. The huskphone is still propped up on the ground, and you can't see or hear anything but the rustle of movement.

Goddamnit. Where the fuck is Marduk?

"Pheres," you snarl, trying and failing to keep calm. You're not made for this.. kind of inactive bullshit, and your bloodpusher is picking up pace, trying to get ready for you to do something.

You can't do shit.

"Pheres, don't you leave your fucking phone!"

Whatever you hit is soft. You can barely feel the impact, the sensation in your horns muffled as they are, but you reel back all the same - or you try, but there's fingers wrapping tight around your horn, dragging you up.

Sometimes you regret your size. This is one of them. You can't feel the grip on your horn as anything more than an irritant - only the red velvet at the base has any strong sensation, and their grip is firmly on the yellow-orange border - but the panic bubbling up in your chest and wrapping tight around your throat has nothing to do with the physical discomfort of being hauled up.

No, it's all mental. You're being restrained, and that wouldn't be so bad - plenty of people get a thrill out of pinning the tiny redblood, and it's not as if that can't be fun, sometimes, but that's because you can always jump.

You can't use your psionics if people are touching your horns, though, and, it's hard not to panic as you try and fail to twist free. It's too bright out here to see properly without your glasses, but when you squint at your assailant, you can make out the oversized swoop of their horns, and that's almost familiar.

Why is it familiar?

Oh! OA. It's OA.

(Heavens, you hope it's OA.)

Sipara's saying something, her voice a hiss of static and rage behind you, but you ignore it for now. "Hello," you chirp, your voice painfully bright and friendly, and the nervous laugh that bubbles up is entirely involuntary. Your hands are up, but you can't bring yourself to try and force your way free just yet: OA has to be the tallest troll you've ever seen, and that's frankly terrifying.

You duck your head instead, tucking in your chin and trying to gently pull your horn free that way. (They're as big as a highblood, so you'll just pretend they are.) "You're, ah, OA - right?"

Pheres is on his feet, and.. you'd assumed he was flirting online, painting himself all up like a picture of fucking docility to make himself nice and pitiable, but no. You've got a hand on his horn and he's pattering off niceties even as he tries, neat as a baby baabeast, to pull free.

His hands are up, but he isn't even trying to use his claws: the clench of his graspfronds in front of him is all toothless appeasement, the curl of his fronds speaking more of paps than swipes.

That's hilarious.

You're tempted to keep your grip on his rack, just to see how he responds if you don't play along - but, no, the entire point of this is to play nice, incite Sipara by showing her up with her own damn palepal, so you let go of his horn and sling your arm around his shoulder instead.

It's not as comfortable as you'd thought. Boy is tiny as fuck. Perigees can go by without you seeing hide or hair of another lowblood, but you're pretty sure he's runty, even by a rustbucket's standards.

And bony, too. Good thing you're decked out in layers, or else you'd be getting some wicked ass bruises from the way his shoulderbones furrowing into your flesh.

"'course I'm fucking OA," you drawl. The huskphone on the ground is chirping away, and you can see the gray smudge and black cloud of curls that marks Sipara's face. The sharp, toothy smile - more of a sneer, really - that you flash is just for her, and you cant your head down low just to make sure it's visible.

(See if she says you're fucking unsuitable for quadrants after this.)

"You ready to walk?"

Edited 2015-03-28 23:09 (UTC)

You really don't like being touched, normally: the way other trolls like to press in close, leaving no space to escape if things turn to violence, is just too much. How people can tolerate others hanging off of them all the time is a mystery.

(Your quadrants don't count. They'd never actually hurt you, for all that Sipara can get a little handsy, and contact in that context can be nice.)

OA isn't your quadrant. OA isn't even your friend, but an arm around your shoulders feels less invasive than a hand on your horn, and that relief keeps you from trying to slink free entirely. That, and - well, the chill of their skin, evident even through the wrapped silk of their clothes, is a relief after an hour out in the shade.

"I have a name, you know," you say plaintively. OA's posts have always looked absurd online, and spoken aloud, they're not much better: the cadence is all wrong, like they're speaking a language you can't quite follow, and it's all too loud. You're right here! They don't need to shout. "And yes, of course! Ahh.. I don't suppose you brought a cloak for me?"

"Mine is inside," you adds, a little sheepish. "I -- don't exactly know where."

Aw, shit. How the fuck do you pronounce his name?

You could spell it, if you had to: it's not like it's fucking hard, like Liyiji's spew of syllables, but you've never put much thought towards how you'd even blab it.

(You'd never thought you'd need to: all of your pestering was just for show. As far as you were concerned, there wasn't a single fucking chance that Sipara would actually let you near her moirail, not after that little shitshow with her ex.)

(You hadn't anticipated he was apparently a wicked ass lush.)

Pheres. Right. It's probably not pronounced fairies, though that'd be one hell of a joke. How many other options are there, though?

"Fereez," you try, stretching out the word. "That's what you calling yourself, right?"

The second part, you ignore for right now. You'll handle that in a minute.

They hesitate, frowning, and you tilt your head up to smile at them encouragingly. Your name is at the tip of your tongue, but you don't want to just offer it up: some trolls get defensive about that sort of thing, and even in your haze, you remember what Sipara said about OA.

Lowbloods tend to be the most defensive about casteism! You'd rather not incite a rage because OA gets the idea that you're over-stepping.

"Fereez," they try, stretching out the word, and the way they say your name makes it sound like they're gargling rocks. Your smile falters.

But, ah, it's not exactly the easiest word to pronounce, you suppose, especially for a troll who sounds like they've only ever spoken Standard. "Pheres," you corrects, and then you draw it out for their benefit, stretching the vowels: "Fair-ease."

(You hope that didn't sound terse!)

Shifting, you tilt your head up to check their expression, their arm slipping tighter to the back of your neck, and your shoulder jostling into their ribs. They're so tall: your neck is protesting even as you do it, and so it takes you a moment to process what you're seeing.

OA is wearing face-paint: white streaked across their lips and eyelids, and dangling precariously in a tear from one eye, and all of it outlined in the stark gray of the Church. That would be alarming enough, in normal circumstances. You were never much for Carnival, even before you started up travelling, not the way Sipara was: following her would've meant dealing with ID, and you'd have rather gargled rocks.

But Sipara has raged about clowns enough that you know it's better to avoid them, indigo or not. And the sense of trepedition building in your pan is made worse when you finally meet their eyes. They're psionic bright, the pupils obscured by their aura's haze, and...

They're practically cerulean.

You're distantly aware that the symbol on their cloak is yellow, but that doesn't help the way your breath stops. They've got blue eyes, blue as the sky outside, dangerously blue, and that's - that's -

That's hilarious, you decides abruptly, because it's that, or recoiling away from them and the arm that's resting now too heavily on your shoulders. A yellowblood with blue psionics: no wonder they became Mirthful, because that's one hell of a joke.

(You're not laughing.)

"What.. what are you calling yourself?" You try to mimic their cadence, deliberately teasing, and maybe if you forces out a laugh, they won't hear the way that unease is making you choke out each word. "I can't just call you OA."

It's hard not to think of Pheres as a kid, even knowing he's nine, when he's so small and cowed. He's as tense as a steel rod under your arm, his broad-ass shoulders one rigid slant, and you don't know what the fuck his problem is. You're being nice as hell right now.

He angles his head back to peer up at you, his weird, mismatched eyes skimming across your face like he's searching for something. Whatever he finds, he evidently doesn't like: his face blanches, the skin pulling tight, and just as you're getting ready to ask what the fuck he thinks he's looking at, he laughs.

"What... what are you calling yourself?" the little redblood asks, imitating your cadence, and you quirk an eyebrow. It's impossible to tell if the playful lilt is mockery, or teasing, or both. "I can't just call you OA."

"Sure you can." You're not entirely sure why he laughed, and the uncertainty makes your words sharp: there's nothing worse than being left out of a joke. "The fuck is wrong with OA?"

Their words are sharp, and the arm around your shoulder feels like an implicit threat. Your mouth is dry and you swallow hard, keeping the smile in place through sheer force of will. "Um!" you says, and the nervous laughter is coming up in waves now. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but that doesn't stop it at all, and their frown is just growing deeper and deeper. "There's nothing precisely wrong with it, haaah, just --"

It's hard for you to see the sparks, when they're not falling directly on you: they might be bright, but they're nothing compared to the harsh light of the sun, even tucked away in the shade like this. You put off the first flash of white as a sunspot, but it's hard to dismiss it when the little 'sunspots' start increasing in number.

It's already hard to see outside with no glasses and only one contact between your delicate eyes and the glaring sun. The sparks only make it worse, and the way each flicker of light feels like it's blinding you is infuriating and terrifying all at once. Worse yet, they start gaining after you notice them, and what starts off as one quickly escalates, until your vision is more blinking white than it is the looming form of OA in front of you.

A spark lands on them, and you wouldn't have thought it could sting even through fabric, but judging by the way they snatch their hand away, startled --

"Sorry," you say, backing up towards your phone, and you can't help the appeasing chirp that escapes between words. "I - sorry! OA is fine!"

He's cowed, but baby rust's evidently not completely docile: the way he's acting, he's ten seconds from bolting, and you're not sure what's keeping him. The alcohol? Manners?

(Little thing probably thinks you'll haul him straight back if he tries, and he's right enough. No point in having made this mirthless trip if you don't haul him back in, all sound of flesh, and prove Sipara wrong once and for all.)

"There's nothing wrong with it," he says hesitantly, "just--"

If he says something else, you don't notice, because something fucking weird is happening around you. At first, you'd thought the little pinpricks of light drifting around were dust, or sunspots: sometimes that shit happens when you're out in the day. (That's why you don't go out. You've got botched-up hearchutes: you don't need your bulbs fucking up on top of it all.) But they're increasing, and you watch, eyebrows furrowed, as one drifts down onto your gloved hand.

As soon as it touches the glove, it becomes obvious it's not a goddamn dustmite.

"Fuck!" It stings like you've just been burnt, and it's shock more than pain that has you snatching your hand back. Pheres watches, wide-eyed, says something, and then he fucking chirps at you, voice pitched in a wriggler's appeal.

When you look at him, it becomes obvious why. Hidden deeper in the shade of the awning, you can actually see the way his fucking horns are sparking at you, little bursts of psionic aura pulsing from the bottom all the way to the top. His eyes are trying to do it too, and it's fucking unpleasant to look at, the way the light tries and fails to pulse around the remaining lense.

"What the fuck did you drink," you demand, incredulous. "Straight honey?"

What did Sipara say? You're close enough to the phone to snatch it up, and you type in her number even as you keep talking. "I didn't drink honey," you protest, "here - ask Sipara --"

The sudden movement has left your head spinning, and the spike of adrenaline is not playing nice with your system: instead of leaving you clear-headed, it's just making you nauseous and sweaty-palmed, so that it's sheer luck that you don't drop the phone.

Thank heavens for moirails. Sipara picks up after the first ring, still miraculously awake, and you hiss at her, frantic as you stab the speaker button: "Explain why I'm sparking!"

Eventually, you'd let the call drop.

There'd been a purpose behind that: you figured you'd hang up and then call back until Pheres remembered to get his goddamn phone. What you hadn't thought about was the fact he leaves the stupid thing on silent, the better to ignore any calls, and you only remember the second time you hit his fucking voicecache.

("Hello! This is Pheres Dysseu speaking, book repairer and vendor of antiques -- if this is an emergency, please call my moirail, at...")

So you'd broken a few glasses, left a few nasty messages, and sat down to stew. You'd been expecting thirty, forty minutes until he remembered the stupid thing on the ground: you're pleasantly surprised when he calls back in less than ten.

You could do without the way his voice's quavering like a leaf, though.

"Whoa, babe," you say, alarmed. Your voice comes back tinny, and holy shit, he put you on speaker. Why the fuck did he put you on speaker? "Calm the fuck down, okay?"

"Explain why I'm sparking!" he demands, and okay, you're definitely going to murder Riccin. There's no reason he should be freaking the fuck out like this. It's been ten minutes. The fuck did they do?

(They culled Noname, but she was in the cullpits, and that's the only reason you so much as talk to them. If Riccin's so much as touched a hair on Pheres's fucking head, though --)

Shit. Okay. Sparking: you can do that.

"Someone slipped you a honey pill. It's not fucking contagious, so if Riccin's giving you shit, tell them to cram it up their nook, okay?"

Edited 2015-03-29 21:43 (UTC)

Every time Pheres gets agitated, his glands make the sparks increase until there's little trickles of light cracking across his horns, like ribbons in the breeze. Now that you're not in the danger zone, you have to admit: it's entertaining as hell to watch.

Usually you have to hit someone to get this sort of lightshow started.

It only gets better when he jabs a button on his shitty little device and Sipara's rough-ass voice comes pouring out. For a moirail, she's doing a real shit job of calming him down: the way he flinches when she mentions nooks sends a spark shooting all the way across the porch and towards you, and you pull back with an amused snort.

Little fucker's slow as anything, though, and dragging more with every inch it passes. You're out of the way just in case, 'cause you're not into getting zapped, painful or fucking not, but the spark fades and sizzles before it's even hit the ground. Whatever Pheres's psionics are, they're obviously not made for distance.

"Whoa, Nzinga," you say, amused, "keep it in your fucking pants. Your boy's present." You waggle your eyebrows at him, but Pheres doesn't seem game for the joke: he averts his eyes without even a flash of teeth, holding out the phone like it's his last line of defense. (Wicked rude, and you could call him out on it - but nah, the cowering's funny, too.) "So baby boy here's been huffing honey. Alright. Schoolfeed me: is this shit gonna wear off?"

You aren't usually the sort to spark: it takes a special kind of agitation to do that, and you don't let yourself get into those sorts of situations! (Not when you're sober.) But the alcohol has made you volatile and the honey has loosened your already unsteady control, and now that you've started, you can't figure out how to stop.

(Your psionics have always done what they wanted for the most part, but the difficulties you face tend to come in take-offs and landings: not in this uncomfortable pulsing in your horns, that's shooting off sparks and leaving you a hazard.)

The brilliant glow of your psionic static is making your ganderbulbs ache, and while Sipara and OA talk, you fumble to remove your contact. You poke yourself in the eye in the process, but once you manage it, you flick the freed contact onto the ground next to the shredded braids.

Someone will be very confused in the evening, but that's their problem. It'll probably serve them right. That party was awful, even before the static. Who plays country music at a lounge party? Idiots, that's who.

Blinking rapidly, you scrub at your ganderbulbs. They're still sparking, the flickers of light bright enough to wash out everything else, but without the contact to reflect off of it, it's at least a little better.

Goddamnit, is Riccin trying to flirt with you?

Gross.

It's hard to tell what pisses you off more: that, or the way they're calling Pheres baby boy like he's theirs. (Or like he's some sort of fucking mammal pet.) Maybe the anger churning in your digestion sack is irrational, but you don't think so. Riccin's doing this to set you off, and guess what, it's fucking working.

You hate them so much, and there's nothing romantic about it. If Marduk doesn't turn up soon, you'll make the drive your damn self - and a whole lot of people are going to get fucking culled.

"An hour," you say, keeping your voice pointedly flat. Riccin's desperate for attention, has been ever since you first lost interest sweeps and sweeps ago: they might know you, but you know them as well as the scar on your face. You give them so much as an inch and they'll run a mile.

So the only thing you can do is give them nothing at fucking all.

"Maybe two? If you'd just stop being a huge bitch-"

It's easier said than done.

You sink your claws into your arm and dig in, until the shivers reverberating through your body are from pain instead of - (not fear, never fear) - nerves, right. You have got to calm the fuck down. It's striking you that Pheres is quiet as the dead in the background, and you know how fucked up Riccin is: you made it clear that touching your quads in the future, ex or current, would get their chump-ass culled, but it'd be just your luck they decide, hey! Maybe things are different and try again.

Deep breath.

"If he's calm, he should stop sparking," you say, exhaling slowly. Calm and steady as a fucking rock, that's you. "As much. Shit isn't gonna stop completely for awhile."

Baiting Sipara's like playing Catch the Faithless at Carnival: it's a game you were hatched to win, and it doesn't matter what line you put out, 'cause you're always gonna get results. You know every way to make your little nubby-horned sister flush with rage and flash fang, and these days, it doesn't take much more than dropping some raucous truths.

Except for now. Baby girl's not biting, and you don't. know. why.

You squint at the videofeed, but there's no teeth, no growl, nothing but a sullen frown and a flat shine to her ganderbulbs. Your girl ain't exactly the calmest motherfucker around: usually, even the mention of her moirail would get the two of you locking horns for awhile, but right now, she's acting like she just doesn't even give a shit.

It's irritating as fuck. Is she doing it on purpose?

You scowl at the camera, but you're not about to jump for her attention. She's bottom of the ladder, and you're damn near top: she should be gracious that you're even deigning to pay mind to a mirthless rustie like her, not playing these hoofbeast go-around games.

(You hate her so much.)

"Then I suggest you fucking calm him," you snap, dismissing her, and you turn away from the phone. "'cause right now, he's a flashing bullseye for every finface with an engine kink, and you're the one huffing honey if you think I'm gonna put up with that shit."

Pheres is scrubbing at his eyes for some fucking reason, and whatever, you do not even care. You've got bigger issues: namely, how the fuck you're going to haul him back hive. He's small enough he could just tuck under your cloak, and that'd been the original plan, but you're not about to get zapped to death. The sparks might not feel any worse than static, but fuck that noise, you ain't putting up with it.

Luckily, there's a hive right in front of you, filled with drunk-ass molds and their shitty-ass gear. You'll just snatch him a cloak from the nearest lust. He'll probably still get burned, but shit's still better than he could ever afford.

You start to step inside, but then the sound of motion behind you makes you look back. Pheres's moved his hands away from his face, and -- the white eyes, staring psionic bright from the dusky skin, make the hair rise at the back of your breathstem.

Boy looks like he's already up and died on you.

Fucking gross. Maybe you'll grab him some glasses, too.

There's a creak that you don't recognise, but the sound of a door slamming shut is obvious enough. You wait a moment, holding your breath, but it seems like Riccin headed inside.

They're still at the fucking hivestem? Well. At least that'll give Marduk some time to arrive, and then maybe Riccin will just go and fuck off. Blood caste doesn't matter shit when it's green, not to anyone normal, but Riccin's a casteist wastechute about this sort of shit, and the law says jade trumps yellow every single time.

Hopefully they'll buy it.

(Hopefully Mardie will grow a fucking spine and enforce it.)

Pheres is quiet, and man, you are seriously regretting the fact that you never wasted the caegars on upgrading your huskphone. Feels like the screen isn't much bigger than your thumbnail, and the picture quality is fucking horrible: it might as well not even allow them, for how little you can make out in the grainy, black-and-white film.

Your moirail can see you, probably. But you can't tell what he's doing at fucking all, and it's starting to freak you out.

"Pheres," you say carefully. "You cool?"

"Pheres," Sipara says, her voice carefully controlled. "You cool?"

No, you want to say.

Sun exposure seemed a melodramatic way to go earlier, but now you're back to seriously considering it - or maybe just crawling into that closet and seeing if you can't hide under the pile of coats. The moirails are probably sleeping: they wouldn't notice.

Anything would be better than thinking about Riccin's glib comment about engines and seadwellers.

But you can't go and die, no matter how tempting the thought is: Sipara's right there on the phone with you, and if you ran off, she'd come up just to murder you herself. You huff, drawing in on yourself, but the thought is soothing in an unpleasant sort of way.

"Yeah," you finally say, and my, your voice sounds terrible. It's all dry and raspy, and your mouth feels like it's been stuffed with porous combed wool balls. You love warmth, but the heat of noon is too much even for you. "I mean - yes. I'm alright."

"I can't stop sparking, though." You pull a face for all that no one can see you, and then you shake your head, just to see what'll happen. Sure enough, the gesture leaves a spray of light all around you, sparks flying off of your hair and skin like water. This is awful. "Do you suppose -- should I just go back inside, and sleep it off?"

"They're greenbloods, mostly," you add. "Maybe someone just - didn't realise I had psionics, and put the honey in on accident."

Ugh, fuck, he sounds terrible.

"Fuck that and fuck you, dude," you snap. "That's a terrible idea. Sit your ass dow- no, wait, don't do that, just. Lean against the wall or something."

And then you flounder, because - goddamnit, you fucking suck at pacifying. You're better than you used to be, at least: how many sweeps has it been since you marked up his face in that first major blow-out? But, shit, 'no longer a risk of physical maiming' is a pretty low bar to set.

Ugh.

You're going to have to try, though, because as much as it makes your skin crawl to admit it, Riccin was right: he does need to cool it with the lightshow. Sparky psionics out in the day are the ones that end up powering kids bootlegged ships, or dead because some dumb finface thinks eating a psionic brain will get them powers.

(You've been tempted to try some pretty dumb shit in the name of science, but not that dumb. Up spectrum run so cold, they must get freezer burn on their pan.)

"'sides, midbloods parties suck." You lean forward on the nutrition mesa, rapping your claws against the edge as you talk. "They're always so fucking cold." Wait, shit, he's out baking in the sun - that's not the best way to convince him to stay put. "Hmph. Iunno why you're always trying to get into 'em."

"You're the one that told me -" How did he phrase it? Oh, right. Their pitches aren't too different, when it comes down to it, but you exaggerate your words, stretches the vowels until it matches his fakey-fake highblood cadence. Maybe it'll make him laugh: he sounds like he needs it. "Midbloods are acceptable, not good. And most of them are barely that. Why, and heavens strike me if I am wrong, once I saw a teal wearing surplus goods--"

"Rude! I don't - I'm not constantly trying to hang with greenbloods," you protest, appalled and laughing despite that. "What does that even mean? I just - Sipa, I don't want to get robbed!"

"Or culled!" Hang out with your own caste, and suddenly you're one of the wealthiest people in the room: if people aren't chasing you to buy them drinks, they're trying to size you up as a target. And highbloods.. well.

Even at your drunkest, you're not quite daft enough to try and party with them.

You lean against the wall - not just because she told you to, but because you feel like you're going to fall over, and you'd rather not have OA come out to you sprawled across the pavement. You can't read them very well, but you suspect they'd just leave you.

Sipara's mocking you, but it's a familiar game between the two of you, and the role of the offended ponce is an easy one to fall into. "I don't sound like that," you sniff. "And - and - you're making it sound terrible, but it's not like it's untrue, is it? They're -"

Shit. You can't remember if you're meant to count your own caste or not, and it makes you pause. "Well! They're only three or four castes above us. And you've said worse! It's nothing against them personally, and, and besides -" you say, teasing, "you're one to talk! Are we still pretending you're not - haah - fooling around with poor Boopis?"

"Don't you poor Boopis me," you retort. He sounds calmer. Good! "And I'm not fooling around with her, you bulgemunch. I already dumped her once, remember?"

You glance around, but - of course, poor Boopis stayed in her own hive today. Good. Talking shit about your manager is always hilarious, given she's one of the few trolls that you and Pheres have both known forever, but the snitfits when she inevitably finds out are distinctly not. Sometimes you think she's the one with ears like a fucking hopbeast, not you. "We're just fucking. Geez, get it right."

"Speaking of which - sage advice, bro, don't fuck teals. Might as well go fuck an empty pail. It's probs warmer."

Heavens above, your moirail is an awful person. One day you're going to make her clear it up with Boopis - one way or another - because you might not be a romantic expert, but you're fairly certain the way Sipara jerks her around can't be healthy.

(For either of them! You're certain Boopis only tolerates you for Sipara's sake, but that doesn't mean you want her feelings getting hurt.)

But not today. Sipara mentions pailing, rolling out the word with a pointed emphasis, and you laugh, mortified, and hide your face behind your arm. "Stop that," you demand, and then she adds on her second comment, and you yelp: "Stop, oh my god -"

Or at least, that's what you try to say, but once you've started laughing, it's hard to stop.

Oh, no, you broke him. Aren't you awful.

"Come on, dude," you laugh, because fuck it, it's almost two in the fucking evening and you are exhausted, "calm the fuck down! It's not like I said don't fuck indigoes, it'll give you frostbite - even though it will, actually, don't fuck Riccin, either, that shit probably rubs off -"

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