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.
no subject
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.