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refiningspacetime ([personal profile] refiningspacetime) wrote in [community profile] fleetlogs2015-03-28 10:03 pm

THE EDITED PHERES LOG (third times a charm)

=> PHERES: Abscond.
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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[personal profile] obstructedantiquity 2015-03-28 11:23 pm (UTC)(link)
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?"
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[personal profile] obstructedantiquity 2015-03-28 11:58 pm (UTC)(link)
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?"
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[personal profile] activatingaggro 2015-03-29 12:03 am (UTC)(link)
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)
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[personal profile] obstructedantiquity 2015-03-29 09:53 pm (UTC)(link)
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?"
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[personal profile] activatingaggro 2015-03-29 10:31 pm (UTC)(link)
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."
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[personal profile] obstructedantiquity 2015-03-29 10:36 pm (UTC)(link)
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.
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[personal profile] activatingaggro 2015-03-29 10:53 pm (UTC)(link)
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?"
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[personal profile] activatingaggro 2015-03-29 10:59 pm (UTC)(link)
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--"
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[personal profile] activatingaggro 2015-03-29 11:02 pm (UTC)(link)
"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."
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[personal profile] activatingaggro 2015-03-29 11:18 pm (UTC)(link)
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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[personal profile] obstructedantiquity 2015-03-29 11:25 pm (UTC)(link)
The hivestem's lobby is dank as fuck, sweltering with the heat and pheromones from too many trolls packed into too small of a space. There's almost no light at all, save for what's streaming in from the parted curtains, but most of the bodies are flushed green as fuck.

No wonder someone slipped Pheres a honeypill: dumb motherfucker was probably the only rust on the scene. It could've been intentional, or else it could've been some kid, a little too eager to spread the mirth to think about checking caste before hand.

Who cares? Same result.

No one pays you much mind as you stalk through, stepping on hands and bodies of people too zoned out to think to move. There's a few glances, but you sincerely doubt you're the first fucker to trespass today: these sorts of events are rife with trolls being retrieved by their moirails, and the residents must figure you're here to retrieve yours. Whatever, let the swillbloods think what they fucking want.

(You've never been in a party like this: after-sermon meet-and-greets, sure, where the faygo's spiked and the air is kept as cold and humid as the inside of an refrigeration unit, but this isn't exactly the same. For one, there's not enough blood. And...)

The hell are you smelling?

(Scratch that: the honey pill definitely wasn't personal, because you're pretty sure most of these fuckers are high as kites right now. Who the fuck smokes sopor?)

There's a pair of moirails dozing in the cloak closet, and you step past them, snatching the first cloak that looks around the right size and the sunglasses from the larger trolls face. You're on your way out the door before they can even do more than sleepily protest, and whatever they say is too low to process as much more than a drone.

There's a half-drank bottle of alcohol by the door. You contemplate it, and then snatch it up, too. It smells like it's sopor-based, and if Pheres is still sparking, well. He's already proven he's not adverse to drinking: sopor'll fix the sparks, one way or the other.

But it looks like that was an unnecessary precaution, because when you step outside, the sound that greets them is hysterical laughter. Pheres is propped against the wall by the door, arm over his face, laughing so hard that you half-expect ruddy tears to be running down his face.

Maybe they are! You can't tell, because boy's bright as a colourgrub. It's a change of pace from the way he was cowering just a few minutes ago, and hmph. Maybe Sipara isn't such a shitty-ass rail, after all.

(Figures the only quad she's decent at is the one that doesn't fucking count.)

Pheres is still on the phone, his lips barely moving, but the buzz of his voice just loud enough that it registers to your ears. He might not know you can't hear worth a shit - he better not fucking know, or else you'll cull whatever wastechute's been running their seedflap - but it's still rude as fuck. If anyone's gonna be talking, they're going to do it where you can actually hear.

So you snatch the phone from him. It's not hard when his grip is already loose enough that it looks ready to drop, and when he makes a noise of protest, you dump the extra cloak on top of his head for good measure.

"Good job, nookmunch," you purr into the phone. Pheres is spluttering beside you, and on the other end of the line, Sipara looks like she's just about to pop a vein. Good. "Kid is sparky no more, so hell, maybe I won't ditch him now."

There's a sharp intake of breath, and then Sipara's actually growling over the phone, rattlereeds going so fast that it sounds like they're gonna snap straight in half. Your bloodpusher's twisting, the familiar, satisfying precursor to your war glands acting up, and -- holy shit, she's actually flashing fang at you now, the first time all day.

Took her fucking long enough.

"Later," you say brightly, just as it sounds like she's about to say something, and you end the call.

It starts ringing immediately as she calls back, and you're still grinning as you turn off the phone and shove it into your pocket.
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[personal profile] obstructedantiquity 2015-03-29 11:32 pm (UTC)(link)
"Mm."

It's not much of a response, but you don't have much to say.

The fuck are you supposed to be talking about? You've skimmed his and Liyiji's conversations before, curious about the sheer amount of time your pitypal's wasted talking to a fucking rusty, but you were disappointed to find it's mostly just books, books, books.

(And Liyiji trying to troll for information on Pheres's caste. Miracles, your friends are all a bunch of dumbasses. Since when has a seadweller ever had a rack that size?)

You could start flapping about books. You've raided enough from the crypts underneath the Academy over the sweeps: your hive is practically bristling with them and other old shit you thought seemed interesting enough at the time. But the only book you read on the regular is the Book of Rhymes, and Pheres doesn't seem the sort to be interested in religious fucking philosophy.

Most folks aren't. Well, it fucking sucks to be them: you've got a hive full of Mirthful that actually know what shit's worth gabbing over.

But that stray thought reminds you of something, and you peer down at him, frowning. "Hey, fourhorns," you say, "where the fuck are you staying at?"
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[personal profile] obstructedantiquity 2015-03-29 11:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh, hello, there's a tiny-ass rust clinging to your arm. You slow, looking down, and he's grinning up at you, looking apologetic as fuck.

Whatever. It's hard to look at Pheres and not compare him to Sipara, but when you strip away the expectations, it's not like he's hideous: bony as a stripped cluckbeast and with those freaky-ass visionorbs, but the freckles are nice, and the horns make up for a lot. He'll look nicer when he's not flushed as red as a water dispensing device, probably, but...

Eh. As far as arm candy goes, he's not exactly bad.

Even if it is entirely too hot for the way he's pressed in close, claws hooked into the layered fabric of your cloak. You can handle it, though, and you listen with increasing incredulity as he talks. He lives in his cart. And --

"You lost your cart," you repeat. "You lost your cart, and you get drunk at fucking sunlight parties, and -- how the fuck aren't you dead?"

It's a rhetorical question, because honest to god, you do not give a single shit about the answer. Exasperation is winning out over incredulity. You don't have time for this bullshit, and right now, you're just about ready to go hive and climb into your coon.

"Whatever," you say, your voice flat. "You're just staying in my hive. Come on."
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[personal profile] obstructedantiquity 2015-03-29 11:48 pm (UTC)(link)
It's a miracle, he says.

"If it was a fucking bother, I wouldn't have offered." You look down at him, ready to ask what the fuck he's gabbing about, and when he tilts his head to meet your eye and beams, showing all those dull, bucky teeth, it strikes you that - oh, he did that on purpose.

It's easier to remember now why you found him appealing in the first place, back when he was just posting pictures on the board and you hadn't made the connection with between some four-pronged rustie and Sipara's rarely mentioned moirail. Nice rack, nice face, and nice manners. Maroons who know their place are few and far between, and ones worth looking at are even rarer.

He's still bricky red, but what can you say? You're a sucker for a lowblood who can spout religion.

It's just a shame about the eyes.

But luckily, you already thought about that. Fishing around in your pocket, you pull out the tinted eye protectors and present them to him with a flourish. "Nah, what's a real miracle is that those wicked monstrosities haven't gotten your chump ass culled," you say, amused. "Put these on, before some fucker starts getting ideas."

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