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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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 -"

Just as you're calming down, Sipara comes out with that, and you choke on the air.

What the hell?

"Don't - don't bring me into this," you splutter out, your righteous indignation somewhat ruined by the way laughter keeps bubbling up over your words. OA is pretty enough, but - no way in hell. "I'm not going to - why would I - you're a horrible person, you know that -"

You don't hear the door open behind you. Probably for the best: your face is currently buried behind an arm, like it'll hide the way you've gone cherry red, and you're wheezing for air that doesn't want to come. You're a little occupied to be worrying about OA.

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.

The laughter cuts off when the world goes dark, and something plucks your phone from your fronds. You splutter with protest, interrupted mid-laugh, and you have to flail to get your face free. The cloth isn't restricting, but it's blocking your vision and you don't like it, not at all.

When you finally manage to scramble free, you're holding an oiled suncloak in your hands. You blink at it, and then look at OA: they were the one who took your phone, but it's gone now. Into a pocket? Or their sylladex? Rude.

Something is niggling in the back of your pan as you look at them, but you can't remember what. You're sure it'll pop back up eventually, or else Sipara will call and remind you. Normally you hate the way she likes to try and hover, but right now, you're alright with it: she's your moirail, and.. you're not exactly full functioning right now, although you're loathe to admit it. Hovering is her job, isn't it?

You shrug on the cloak, lacing it up with unsteady fingers. It's a little too large, but greenbloods don't tend that much larger, in width or height, and so it's easy enough to roll up the sleeves until they're no longer flopping over your fingers. The cloak itself is nothing to write home about, just the standard cheap, drone-produced swill you could buy at a depot, but for once, you're grateful for it: the fact the hood is meant to accommodate even girthy bluebloods is the only reason you even get it up and around your horns and hair, and once it's up, it's easy to tie the horn straps to keep it in place.

"Thank you," you say, polite. "Haah, ah. Shall we go?"

"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?"

"Hey, fourhorns," they say, "where the fuck are you staying at?"

OA has hellishly long legs and a stride to match, and you have to struggle to keep up. You rely on your psionics for so much in terms of orientation, and you've never really noticed that before: without them constantly judging the distance and angles of your environment, processing where a jump is feasible and where it simply isn't, the world feels a little unreal. It's hard to convince your pan that the ground won't move between the lift and drop of each walkstub, and it's harder still when you're trying to meet OA's stride.

They're as tall as a highblood, and it feels like they're taking three steps for every one of yours. It's absurd, and it only takes a minute of this before you get fed up and loop an arm through theirs. It steadies you, which is a definite bonus, but it also forces their steps to falter and slow.

(You don't like physical contact with strangers, not unless you're going in with a certain goal, but - it doesn't feel restricting, exactly, when you're the one initiating it.)

"Sorry," you say when OA looks down at you. You grin apologetically up at them, ignoring the way your lookstem clicks with protest. "I - haah - you're going a little fast."

They'd asked you a question, and you scramble internally to remember the answer. Where are you staying? You left your combustioncart at a resting facility, way back at the start of the night, but you can't remember where. You hadn't thought to put it into your phone, because, well.. it's not exactly as if you were planning on going back to your hive today, was it?

And unfortunately, resting facilities in a city like this are a dime a dozen. Leaving a cart out in public is an excellent way to get it stolen, or ruined by drones, or marked up by lusii: paying someone to watch it is the only way to ensure there's something to come back to in the evening, even in the greenblood districts. Maybe it's safer in the highblood lawnring communities, but you've never been able to afford a oversolar there.

OA is staring at you, waiting, and you snap out of your introspection. You're supposed to be answering a question. Right.

"I'm staying in my cart," you say, worrying your lip. "But, haah, would you believe -- oh, this sounds awful. Um."

"I.. don't precisely remember what facility I left it at?" You look down and away, massaging the back of your neck. "But there can't be a lot of them out here, right?"

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."

It's probably telling that the first thing you realise about OA's cloak is the fact it is expensive, more expensive than even the suncloak you keep in your syllabus for special occasions. The fabric is smooth and soft under the tips of your graspfronds, almost silky, and it feels like the fabric itself's been permeated in wax, because it's reflecting more heat than it's gaining.

"Haha. Ah. Um. Sheer luck?" Compared to you, their cloak is positively cool, and you press in close, pleased with your decision. You'd prefer to be inside, but this is at least a little reprieve from the heat, and that thought inspires you. "It's a miracle, really," you add, beaming up at them hard enough that your cheeks dimple. They're a cultist: they like that sort of thing, don't they?

You're not expecting the invitation to their hive, and for a moment, it throws you. They're not suggesting - no, no, of course not. Thank heavens, because OA seems nice enough, when they're not being terrifying, but no.

You might have gone out with a goal in mind, but OA is hardly eligible for the position. (Haah. Position.) There's a lot of rules you're willing to fudge in the name of some harmless fun, but pailing your moirail's ex is not one of them.

"Ah." You're not going to cast aspersions where there are none, you decide: they're just offering to let you sleep this off on their couch, and by the time the daymares wake you, hopefully it'll have burned off and you'll just leave. "If that's alright with you! I wouldn't want to, haah, be a bother.."

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."

They.. aren't threatening to put out your eyes, are they? No, no. You're being unflattering again, you're sure, but just in case, you slide on the unfamiliar glasses as soon as OA presents them to you.

(Everyone hates your eyes, but honestly, you don't understand why. You like them better than the rosewood they should be: the way they blind you in the light is thoroughly unlovable, but they look nice against the swarthy complexion of your skin, and they go well with your clothes. All of your clothes, because white goes with everything.)

(It's not like it's an actual mutation! Some of the people they let past the culling pits these days are honestly distressing; for heavens sake, you saw a girl with multiple pupils out and about the other night, and you don't understand how no one seems to have a problem with that.)

You forgot how soothing it is to have glasses on. For the first time in hours, the suns indirect light doesn't leave you feeling like there are needles in your eyes, and the sparks still dancing at the edge of your vision are reduced to mere blurs. The tint on the glasses is weaker than what you prefer, but the way the worlds gone dark is comforitng.

"They're not cull-worthy," you retort with a sniff. They're not threatening to put your orbs out, but the joke still leaves you feeling defensive. "Everyone always asks that, like - haah - they've never seen a psi- a ps- someone with powers before."

"You're lucky you're so tall." Your tone is playful, but it's not quite a joke. You can see their eyes, bright as the sky behind them, but with the glasses on, they almost look normal. "I bet no one can even see your orbs up there, can they?"

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[pheres you protest too much]

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[pheres won't acknowledge his drunken hook-ups even while on the prowl for drunken hook-ups]

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