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

You're starting to think you'll feel excluded from any group. All of your highblood classmates look down on you for your blood, and many refuse to talk to you outright: they'll all be heading off to ships and colony planets, but you're the only student, save for the four sweep old Dammeo, who will be sent to the caverns. Why bother making connections with the girl they'll never see again, when they're surrounded with children they might be stationed with?

You've never had that problem with lowbloods. Jade is rare enough that most think you're just olive, and you've always been treated like one of them. But at times like these, when they're all doing strange things like they're perfectly normal...

It's almost a relief when you notice the way that Pheres is drowsing, half-perched on Riccin's shoulder. You've read about the dangers of sunlight: it's important to know, for all that it doesn't apply personally. And sleepiness, all of the guides said, is one of the first signs of danger.

You gently tug a water bottle free from your decimal sylladex, where it's been catalogued as 600.641 (Food & Drink), and head over. You tap him on the shoulder, carefully, and holds out the water bottle. "Excuse me, Pheres," you say. "Um. You should drink this."

"It's water with additional electrolytes added in order to prevent dehydration." He's already drank contaminated liquid once tonight, and you don't want him to be unaware, or worry. "You've been in the sun for a great deal of time, so you should rehydrate."

Man, lowbloods are all so fucking tiny. You're starting to feel like a drone in the caverns right now: Marduk is the tallest of the bunch, and even slouched, you've got a head on her. Shit is absurd.

Little fuckers could at least have the courtesy to wear boots.

"Ghosts," you repeat. That sounds vaguely familiar: if they're hanging with Marduk and Sipara, then they're probably another dork from Fleetbound. Well, whatever. "That's hilarious, kid, 'cause I fucking make them. Now shut the fuck up. I'm not out here to yammer."

Moving requires shifting Pheres, who is still purring, and.. apparently sleeping, because he doesn't do much more than make a muffled noise of protest when you try to stand up. It's pathetic, and you'd almost be tempted to let him stay, except for the fact he is completely fucking drunk, and that, combined with the way he's clinging, is starting to seriously weird you out.

Thank god for the jade. She trots over, rattling off some creed on water bottles and dehydration, and you take the opportunity to shrug off Pheres, and push him - none too gently - towards her. "Go cling to the trainee," you order. "Come on, we're walking."

There's someone tapping on your shoulder.

Your eyes have shut sometime in the last few minutes, and your purring stutters to a stop as you crack them open. It's still bright outside, even with your glasses, and Marduk is standing in front of you, holding out a bottle of water.

Riccin shrugs you off, and the world goes floppy for a moment: you're too tired to really have much in the way of balance, the heat having left you limp-limbed and sluggish, but luckily there's a big hand in the center of your spine, shoving you roughly towards Marduk.

"Oh," you say, blinking rapidly. Latching onto Marduk's arm as soon as she gets close enough is a matter of self-preservation: you don't want to fall! (You can't feel the ground beneath you with anything other than your feet, and that's bizarre.) But she still tenses like it's unexpected, and you twist your mouth into a lopsided smile. "Sorry," you offer, laughing a little as you lean on her.

This is ridiculous. By the point that the alcohol starts burning off and disorientation sets in, you're usually already asleep. If this is what it feels to be drunk - really, really drunk - you're never going to touch a drink ever again. "Haah. I take it we're walking now..?"

Pheres is only a few inches shorter than you, but he's featherbeast light: even when he leans on you, the only inconvenience is the way that your earring tangles in his hair. He's apologising muzzily, even as he latches onto your arm, but you can't blame him. He's unsteady as a particularly top heavy wriggler.

"Um," you says, frowning at Riccin, because why did they just shove him on you? The way he's clinging is making your skin crawl, and it has nothing to do with the heat. "it's alright."

Riccin claims that they're an Imperial Trainee as well, but manners are an important part of every course, and respecting your betters is the main focus. You're not sure if you really believe in the hemosystem, but you know better than to flout it.

Apparently, Riccin doesn't. There might only be two castes between you, but the fact remains: jade is past the limegap, and yellow is not. You would think that'd warrant a little respect, and tossing Pheres onto you without so much as a by-your-leave and referring to you as a trainee.. well, you'd never do that to Sappho.

(Mostly because she'd cull you. But also because you aren't rude.)

Trying not to let your frown deepen, you push the water bottle into Pheres's hands. "Do try to drink that, please."

You push out your bottom lip, pouting. You want to say something else - like tell them how much they suck, they're such a jerk, it's awful - but Riccin is looking at you, so you pinch your fingers and zip your lips shut instead.

As soon as they turn their back, you stick out your tongue. They're so mean!

Riccin shoves Pheres off on Marduk, and you watch approvingly as she catches him easily. Her other arm is free, and maybe you'll grab it in a minute, so the three of you are all in cahoots, and Riccin is left all alone. That'll show them.

Maybe they'll cry! You hope they'll cry. Jerk.

The rest of them are walking ahead, and that's cool: you'll just play catch up, once Castor turns back up. You linger back, giving the leash a mental tug, and wait for the blueblood to appear.

Pheres stumbles as you push him, giving you a look over his shoulder like he really doesn't understand what's going on. He's walking like a puppet with its strings cut, and when he reaches Marduk, he immediately latches onto an arm, twisting just enough so that he's facing the right direction. The look that Marduk gives you is flat-out mean, but she doesn't say a word, just flicks her ears like she's chasing away flies.

She's smarting over the trainee comment, probably, but tough shit: you're Mirthful and she's not, and the Book is real clear on where that places each of you, spectrum or not. You smile at her, but it's hard to keep up the smuggery when Pheres's leaning against her, close enough that he'd be cheek-to-cheek if it weren't for those stupid horns. His eyes are pleased slits, and he's laughing about something under his breath, his lips too slow for you to read and his voice too low to hear.

Good to see the purring shit wasn't personal: apparently, cuddling with strangers is just what he does, because now that he's hanging on the jade, he seems happy as a clambeast.

(Well, what did you expect, when you shoved him off like that? Should've just dealt with the mugginess -)

Ugh, what the fuck ever.

You start walking, and sure enough, the other two fall in step behind you. It takes you a few feet to realise the thump of feet behind you is off, though, and when you look back, yeah - you're missing one of your little number.

The maroon kid is hanging back, peering off into the distance like they're waiting for someone, which is bullshit: no one's awake this time of day save for your lot, and you aren't up for dawdling right now. Long legs mean a long stride, and without having to wait up for the other short-asses, heading back to the kid only takes a minute.

"Come on," you snap, and you snatch them up by the back of their cape. Carrying them or dragging them, it doesn't really matter: either way, Hinnom's coming with them.

If you're playing shitblood corraller, might as well do it right.

You're snatched up by the scruff of your cape like a baby meowbeast, and for a moment, you're too startled to move, and then too scared, because Riccin's hauled you all the way up into the air. Falling from up here would be awful, and Riccin's exactly that sort of a jerk.

You jerk on the leash again instead, soft one time and then a split second later, you yank it harder. Where is Castor? You didn't bring Runnin, or Goutof, or Namese for a reason, and that's because out of all of them, Castor's the only one who really gets that it's his job to protect you.

But he's not here, and you can't use your telekinesis without him.

Fear has you pulling as hard as you can manage. When it comes down to it, the leash is a chain, and you wrap it tight, turning your cry from a request to a demand until finally, there's an answering vibration.

Castor emerges over the horizon a few seconds later, approaching at a run.

Castor can't look pale. There's no blood in his veins, no flesh to drain, but maybe he's feeling especially corporeal today, because when he gets close enough to see, his face is drawn, his body is tense, and he's as pale as.. well, a ghost.

"Drones," he says, his voice like he wants to tear something to shreds. He always gets angry when he's scared, angry and a little wondering, like the emotion's new. "We need to go."

When Riccin turns back, you peer over your shoulder to see why.. and immediately, your pumpbiscuit sinks. Oh. Oh no. You completely forgot about Hinnom.

But the yellowblood has grabbed zim, and Riccin is hauling zim like a package of goods back to the group. Hinnom dangles by zir cape, and even from here, you can see the way ze's holding zimself stiff and solid, like they're frozen from fear.

You don't like it. The way they're being held can't be comfortable! But Hinnom is the smallest of you all, and there's no way ze'll be able to keep up otherwise, so you swallow your complaint. Unless..

You step to Riccin's other side, pulling Pheres gently with you until you're next to Hinnom. Good thing ze isn't thrashing, or ze'd kick you in the face. "Hinnom," you say carefully, "do you think you could use your psionics to keep up?"

Marduk says something, but you don't hear. Castor's close enough to grab you now, now, and he's eyeing Riccin like he wants to haul off and pop them.

But that'd be wasting energy, and if there's drones - your mouth is dry and your pan feels like it's trying to churn in a hundred different directions at once, but god, if there's drone, you've got to amscray. Drones are super-duper, hellaciously bad, the one thing that both your lusus and Castor have both bitched you out about avoiding, and if they're close enough to freak Castor out...

Marduk's next to you, but you don't care: you start thrashing around, kicking and flailing with all four limbs. Riccin's arms are covered in cloth, and your claws aren't doing jack shit to the fabric but sliding off, so you start pummelling the arm with your fists instead. "Let me down," you demand, your voice raising to a shriek. "There's drones back there, I gotta go, let me down!"

The kid is starting to whine, but you do not give a single fuck what sort of raucous noise they want to rattle up: it's not like they can do shit. The sun is up, the air is hot, and your apartment is a thirty minute fucking walk, so fuck anyone that thinks you're about to start dawdling.

You change your mind when the kid starts yowling about drones. The first high pitch noise goes straight into one audiosponge and deep into your the fleshiest part of your pan, and you hiss, your ears immediately pinning back defensively. You'd cover them up, but your hand is currently occupied by the thrashing bag of cloth and bones you're holding up.

Not for long. The kid is fucking hitting you, little paws clenched into fists that're pummelling away at your side and your arm and anything in reach, and the first time one strikes a port and sends shockwaves of sparks crawling up your arm, you're fucking through. You shake them, hard, and then drop them on the ground for good measure.

The only warning you get is the way that Hinnom tenses, head tilting like ze's listening to someone talk, and then goes still. Combat training is what makes you duck, and you're grateful for it when the booted foot goes over your head and straight into Pheres's instead.

Grateful, and appalled.

"Hinnom!" you hiss, flushing. "Pheres - are you alright?"

You only realise you've fallen asleep again when Hinnom starts yowling. Your head snaps up from where it was resting on Marduk's shoulder and thank heavens you're still wearing the glasses, because it feels like the day has only gotten brighter over the past hour. Even through the tinted shades, your vision is crowded with white spots.

And then, seconds later, more appear when a booted foot kicks you directly in the horn. The momentum is too weak for it to really hurt, but the impact of the metal sole is enough to set your horn to ringing, and suddenly you're not tired at all.

You have no idea what's going on. But you do know -

"Drones?" Your mouth feels like it's full of cotton, but you're holding a water bottle for some reason, and you rip off the keratin lid with a claw and take a grateful gulp. The rest of the water, you dump on your head: the suncloak you're wearing is sunproof but not waterproof, and the liquid soaks rapidly through the cloth and onto your skin. It doesn't get rid of the way your head feels like it's full of cotton, but it helps, and besides, it is hot as hell out here.

"What - why are there drones?"

Riccin drops you, and you hit the ground with a bounce that leaves you staggering. But that's okay, because you're on your feet and already spinning, trying to find the best route to escape.

Where did you leave the sewer grate?

The others are talking, but right now, you don't care. Castor's circling your little posse, peering at each in turn, and the information he's rattling off is what you've got to pay attention to. The drones are still a few blocks over, clearing out the last of the communal hivestems. The neighborhood back there is completely locked down, and you've probably only got a minute or two before the groundsmen start moving over here to start rounding up the kids in the street.

Kids like you.

"These two will be fine." He's been looking over Marduk and Riccin, and yeah, you weren't worried about Mardie: she's like, working for the fishheads, so the drones'll probably just pat her on the horns and call her honeygrub. And Riccin's practically the size of a drone by themselves, so they can't be worried.

But Castor's looking at Pheres now, leaning in close enough that the bighorn shifts. Flatscans can't see ghosts as much than specks, but sometimes they can feel their auras. "But this one's cullbait," Castor announces. "Bring him along."

You puff out their cheeks, but there's no time to protest, and while Pheres might look old as fuck, he isn't big: anywhere you can squeeze, he should be able to fit, too, so you dart over and grab his free hand.

"They're doing a culling sweep," you say, and give his arm a yank. If only you were bigger, then you could just scruff him and haul Riccin did. "Come on come on come on! We've gotta go!"

And how the fuck does the kid know that?

But the daytime is quiet. A little too quiet, maybe, and you frown, looking around. Sure enough, there's kids at the windows of a lot of the nearby hivestem, their curtains open and outlines blurred behind the tinted glass. They're not looking down at them, though.

Their faces are angled up, towards the next block over.

"Hold it," you say, irritable. The kid is acting like this is a fucking emergency, but none of you are really cullbait: the kid and Pheres aren't about to be culled just for looking skinny as fuck, you've got the Shepherd's symbol emblazoned bold on the back of your cloak, and Marduk seems like the sort of dumbass that could rattle off her imperial signature in her sleep. "It's a culling sweep. So what?"

Oh. A culling sweep.

You've been through those before, both times on those rare occasions when you slept off-grounds for a night. Drones came into the hivestem and collected all the residents straight in a line, and did a health inspection for blood abnormalities, any incurable communicative diseases.. anything that might warrant a culling so their apartment block could be freed for a new, healthier child.

At the time, it was terrifying. The air had been thick with fear pheromones, and the sound of children weeping: you had watched one child culled right in the middle of the line, and then cried when her moirail demanded the same.

(The drone had done it, under code five hundred and eighty two. You had looked it up, afterwards, and all of the rest of the culling qualifications, just in case, and you hadn't slept for the rest of the day.)

But now...

You're all healthy. No blood aberrations, no disease: you might wonder about Hinnom's health with the way that ze live in the sewer, but ze spends too much time with you. You'd have noticed if ze was sick, or sported any unusual mutations.

"Culling sweeps are a perfectly normal and routine part of the day," you say now, trying to sound soothing. Ze's practically vibrating with anxiety, and the way fear pheromones that are coming off of zim in waves is making your horns ache. "I've been in several, and come out fine. There's nothing to be worried about."

It's a culling sweep.

Well, fuck.

Adrenaline is cutting through the fog of your brain like a knife through a page: one minute, you're still groggy, and the next, your thoughts feel keen enough that they're ripping holes into your pan. Your bloodpusher feels like it's going to climb out of your throat, and you abandon Marduk's arm in favor of following Hinnom.

You're still swaying, but fear is keeping you steady enough that you're not falling over.

The air stinks of fear pheromones, and part of it's coming from you. You've never been in a culling sweep before, but you've heard the stories, and you know how it goes. There's always too many maroons in the population, more redbloods than they can fit into house allotments, more then can be fit into the hivestems, and they're always looking for reasons to thin the herd.

You and Sipara have worked too hard to keep the two of you alive for you to get culled by a bloody drone, of all things: lobotomised soldiers, barely sentient, barely trolls. Better to have been culled by a person than to die like that, because you were too daft and drunk to just stay indoors.

Marduk is shooting off some lovely nonsense about safety, but she's green, and you don't even have to hear what she's saying to know it doesn't apply.

"You two can participate, then," you snaps. "I'm not. Goodbye!"

Oh hell no.

After you just went through all this bullshit to fetch him, you're not about to let Pheres take off with some kid with a drone phobia.

You stalk forward until you're close enough to grab him, and then you do, one hand wrapping around the top of a rostal horn. Thank fuck for gloves, because you can feel the heat of the cuff even through the leather.

"Stop being such a wicked cluckbeast," you order. "You fucking dumbass. The fuck you think they're going to do, they see your candy-ass trying to hide out a sweep?"

He's not a blood mutant: his cheeks are ruddy enough that it's clear he's maroon, and you saw his clothes under the sun cloak. Boy is hiding exactly jack shit under that thin-ass get-up, so obviously, he's got nothing to fucking worry about.

The yellowblood is another story, but you really do not give a fuck about the pipsqueak. They're the jade's problem.

Hinnom started moving as soon as you pulled free, and so you're hurrying after the wriggler when your world goes abruptly off-balance. There's a hand on your horn!

Normally, you wouldn't care. Normally, though, you aren't staggering without your psionics, and with your balance already shot from alcohol that refuses to just fucking process. Their grip isn't firm, but the way their fingers are curling into the velvet of your horn is leaving you dizzy.

You hiss at Riccin, showing all of your teeth, and you jerk your head hard to try and wrench it free. "Get off of me," you demand, and then again: "Right now!"

You don't have the weight to out and out wrest free. But you do have one thing on your side, and that's agitation. Drowsing had reduced the sparks to essentially glitter on the base of your horns, shiny but harmless, but you can feel them cracking as your anger grows. Your body wants you to jump, but you can't jump with someone grabbing you, and so the energy you're pumping into your psionics has nowhere to go.

Nowhere to go but out. The air is getting bright with the aborted sparkle and crack of your psionics as the thwarted energy forces its way into the air. You can't jump, not with a hand on your horn, but maybe you can burn the hell out of their hand, if nothing else.

Pheres pulls his arm free from you and is stepping after Hinnom before you can even react. "Goodbye!" he calls over his shoulder, waspish, like he thinks you and Riccin are the ones being foolish.

"You can't outrun a culling sweep," you yelp, and the fear is rubbing off. You feels sick to your stomach, and the flash of gratitude when Riccin moves to intercept them doesn't do much to help: they're going to get themselves culled trying to escape. That's how people die. "You'll be fine! You'll both be fine, just --"

The world goes bright, bleaching out, and you think lightning must've struck, because the air feels heavy with something. Then the colour comes inching back, and you realises it's just Pheres, sparking like when you first saw him.

It's worse now, though, and the sparks are bright enough that it hurts to look at them. The first flare was the worst, and it's already dying down, like he can't quite sustain.. whatever it is that he's trying to do. "Please stop," you whine, glancing towards the distance. You can hear something buzzing. If the drones arrive and find them all fighting...

You're not sure what'll happen. But it'll probably be bad.

He'd snapped at you a few times online, but you had figured Pheres was all talk: after all, it's easy to play tough when you don't have to back it up. But no, he's bearing his teeth at you and hissing like he's actually going to bite.

Big fucking whoop. His teeth are nubby, with none of the care or polish that he's obviously put into his horns, and those fuckers wouldn't even break flesh. The whole thing is pathetic as hell, and you have to marvel at the display. He's as threatening as a wet baby meowbeast. Are you supposed to be scared?

He jerks his head to try and get free, and you tighten your grip on his horn in response. "Get off of me," he demands, his voice frantic, and the only reason you're not growling is because his pan's still marinating in alcohol. He doesn't know what the fuck he's saying, and -- goddamnit, you're here to prove a fucking point about you and Sipara's quadrants. Maiming him won't help.

Even if you are sorely fucking tempted.

"Quit the noise, brother." It's a good thing you're wearing gloves, or your claws would be digging into his skin. "I'm helping your chump ass." But that only makes him jolt his head away again, making your grip slip onto the cuff proper, and later, you'll reflect that's what saved you from your hand getting completely fucking scorched.

The build-up of psionic aura is abrupt: Pheres has been sparking away steadily this entire time, a tiny-ass blip on the radar of your attention, and you barely notice when it starts to amp up. But then it keeps going until the air is suddenly thick with the glowing sparks, the initial surge bright enough that it's hard to see.

The honey's still in his system. They're directionless: whatever his ability is, because by now you're fucking sure it isn't standard telekinesis, he's not using it. He's just pumping energy into his aura and putting on a lightshow, because although the sparks are rippling across his horns and snapping like bands off into the air, they're not going anywhere.

Except onto you.

They might be dissolving before they can get farther than your hands, but the few that hit you fucking sting, even through the thick leather. The initial surge hits the metal and bounces, but you can still feel the brittle heat of them if it'd hit your skin, you might've actually gotten burned. The sparks after that are too weak to do more than sting, brief taps of heat that die off just as the feeling registers, and you tighten your grip as he loses energy.

Incredulity keeps you quiet through all of this, and when the air clears of light, no one's talking at all: the only sound is the buzzing in the distance, the harsh rasp of Pheres's breath, and the snarl reverberating all the way from your thoracic cavity.

He tried to fucking zap you. That fucking bastard.

"You done yet?" you snap. "Because if you're going to keep that shit up, you're not going to have to worry about the goddamned drones."

Your telekinesis only works at a distance, but Pheres is tiny as fuck: you don't need powers to beat some sense into him, if it comes to that.

Once, when you were young and translating a book of old myths, you'd read about one of the very old creation myths, written back before the tyrians gained their stranglehold on the throne and the Empire, back long before the first Dysseu had crawled out of the brooding caverns and marveled at the colour of the sky.

It had been written by jadebloods, back in the days when each caste lived separate in vast, communal hives, and it had said that when the first eggs were sculpted, out of clay and grass and smoke, all trolls had been hatched with black eyes, the better to see in the gloom of the night.

It was only when a greenblood had cut her hand while sculpting and blood had mixed into the clay that the first jadeblood had hatched: a jadeblood, with jade eyes as pale as her blood, eyes that made her strain at night, but made her the first troll to be able to see, and walk in the light of the day.

(You don't remember the rest, much to your regret: it was one of the first books you'd ever done, staying up all day with a dictionary and a pen because you didn't have the caegars to pay for a proper translation, and you hadn't known yet to make yourself a copy of everything you fixed.)

As a wriggler, you'd thought it was an excellent tale.

As an adult, all you can think is that it was complete hoofbeastshit. Your eyes are as pale as they get, and the light of your psionics feels like a punch to the snout, even behind the tinted gloom of the glasses.

You're not blinded, but your eyes are watering as the sparks die down. You can't keep it up, even if you wanted to: your horns ring like you struck them against a wall, and Riccin's hand is still curled tight around one.

As you blink the ruddy tears out of your eyes, they have the audacity to ask you if you're done yet.

"You're going to get me killed," you say, your voice thin and reedy. There's a buzzing in the distance, and you feel the approach of the drones like a hoke on your shoulders.

Pheres looks like you've hit him, his eyes big and wounded, and the kid behind him looks ready to bawl. You feel like when they were bumping horns: like they're living in some crazy-ass world that you can't see or hear, and you're just stuck dealing.

(You might as well have hatched indigo, for all the sense these two are making.)

"What the fuck is your problem?" you demand, and you let go of the horn, because it's starting to feel weird, just standing here and holding it like that. You clamp a hand on his shoulder, instead, grip firm so he doesn't take off. If you have to keep an arm on him in front of the drones to keep him from doing something stupid, well -

Myrrha is going to owe you so fucking bad.

Pheres is looking at you like you've signed and stamped his own Imperial death notice, like you've done him some great wrong and he can't even muster up the energy to be distraught over it. Plenty of kids in the cullpits have looked at you like that, right before your hammer cracks them in the back of the pan, but coming from Pheres, it's unsettling as fuck.

"The hell do you two have against drones? They're not out here for population control." You're losing the thread of your anger: it's still there, boiling away like an unwatched pot, but it's hard to keep hold of it when there's bile rising at the back of your throat. (It's all these fuckers freaking out that's getting to you - the air's so thick with fear, you might as well be hearing chucklevoodoos.) It's a fucking health-check."

Hinnom looks like ze's going to burst into tears: there's already yellow pinpricks at the corner of zir eyes, and you feel like you've been called on in the middle of lecture, because you don't know what to do.

You're certain you're not pale for Hinnom, or any other colour; your friendship is the platonic camaraderie of lonely near age-mates in a city hostile to your respective castes. But you'd do anything to stop the way they look right now.

"It's okay," you say, and oh, no, now you're starting to sound distraught. If Hinnom starts crying, you're going to cry, and then where will you all be? Hinnom and Pheres won't have to worry about the drones: judging by the alarmed looks Riccin is giving the two of them over Pheres's head, the psionic might save the drones the effort and cull them both just to escape the tears. "It's okay!" you say again, urgent, as much to calm them as to soothe Riccin. "They're just going to run our symbols and IDs and make sure no one is dying."

Hinnom's lusus is climbing out of zir shirt and wrapping around zir neck, the oversized mandibles clicking with what might be distress. You want to pat zir shoulder, or maybe hug zim, but the mandibles and each set of legs are coloured with bright, poisonous red, so you bunch your hands on the side of your tunic instead, worrying the fabric with your claws.

It's already ruined from the sewers, anyway.

Edited 2015-03-31 01:11 (UTC)

You hate Marduk, and you hate Riccin, and you hate Pheres, because if you weren't with them, you wouldn't be about to die.

And right now, Mardie is at the top of the list, because she's keep trying to talk to you, her bottom lip trembling like she's got any right to be upset when all of this is all her fault. You're never going to do a favor for her ever again. You're never going to do a favor for anyone ever, ever again, even if you don't die, but you are, and...

"You're so dumb," you accuse Marduk, petting your lusus. She's bumping her antennae against you, mandibles pinching gently at your skin as she tries to figure out what has you so upset. Your throat is too tight for the chirps and hums that you use to communicate with her, though, and so you just pet her instead, trying to draw comfort from the smooth press of her exoskeleton against your skin. "You're SO dumb."

(Lowbloods never leave lasting ghosts: there's too many, and they've got no resistance to the other psychic imprints. They start off strong, brighter and realer than all the rest, but all they do is rub and rub and rub on each other, until a perigee or three passes and there's nothing left but an imprint with no memories and a dozen names. You tried keeping lowbloods leashed, when you were little and hopeful, and all that happened is that they rubbed off on you instead, piece by piece, until fading away entirely.)

(When you die, there'll be no one to leash you and try to keep you real. You'll just be one of those blobs in the sewers, with no name and no face and no -)

"They can't run my symbol 'cause I don't have a symbol," you warble, spitting out the words, and now you're crying, gross, ugly sobs that you don't bother to try and keep in. You're going to die and it's going to be forever. "I don't have a symbol or an ID or anything else and they're going to cull me and it's all your fault!"

"Oh," you breath. Hinnom is sobbing behind you, a wretched, wet noise that is unhappily familiar, and Riccin is still holding onto you. They've moved their grip from your horn to your shoulder, and there's an idea fermenting in the back of your pan. You just needs a few seconds to think...

You tear the glasses from your face and fling them onto the ground. They're cheap: they hit the pavement and the thin glass lenses crack with an audible snap that's almost satisfying.

(You can't remember where Riccin got them, but you hope they belonged to them.)

"Look at my eyes," you demand, sharp with contempt. Your brain is foggy, but your words are coming out crisp with outrage, so only the ends are slurring. Mentally, you can't help but echo the little maroonblood's words: these two are so completely stupid. "Do these look like they're fucking regulation? Do you think a drone can tell the difference between - between psionics and daywalkers? Because I don't think they care!"

"They're going to take one gander at my stupid bulbs and then they're going to cull me, because I'm burgundy, and then-" Your voice hitches, but you force it out: "And then Sipara's going to cull you."

It's not a threat! It's a promise. You may not be the best diamond - if you were, you wouldn't be in this situation right now - but you know your moirail, better than you know yourself.

You know her well enough that she'd regret it, and that sour conviction is what pushes you to action. (It's easy to give up on yourself, but never on Sipara.) Your teeth are dull and flat, but you keep your claws filed and polished. Riccin is tall, but you already know that you can reach their face, so you pull your hand back and slap them hard across the face, claws angled to catch the skin and rip.

THE EDITED PHERES LOG (third times a charm)

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[pheres subscribes by the idea drones are trolls] [is he right? WHO KNOWS] [he runs off rumour]

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[friendly reminder that marduk is sixteen]

[riccin is eighteen AND TERRIBLE]

[pheres is nineteen and the most passive character ever]

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[and hinnom is like twelve] [fourteen?] [sAME DIFFERENCE]

[so the hysteria is like when cops bust underage drinking] [except in this case]

[the cops SHOOT YOU] [also: pheres is 110% more likely to fight for other people than himself] [:C]

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[all of these kids are dumb] [so dumb]

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[WORST GHOST LUSUS]

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[and the most passive child award goes TO]

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[mardie may be passive] [but she has NERVES OF STEEL] [/paps]

[much like pheres] [and the mun] [riccin has NO IDEA what drones are in reality]

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