Hinnom's having a conversation with the air. If you focus, you can almost imagine you can hear something responding - but that's silly. The little grub's crazy, and it's probably starting to rub off.
None-the-less, the conversation must have served its purpose, because after a moment, they jam the heat-recognition button, and the door snaps open to reveal Sipara and Marduk.
"Pheres, you fetid little fishhead," Sipara snaps, as soon as she sees you, and she steps in close like she's going to grab you. Instead, she cracks you across the face with the back of her hand. It's a hard hit, knuckles crooked to bruise, hard enough to make you stumble and the room spin.
It tastes like there's blood in your mouth, and you touch it gingerly - or maybe that's just the sour tang of shame, because Sipara looks like she's ready to burst from exhaustion and fury and the sheer relief of seeing you alive.
"Are you feral? Do you think this is just, like, what people do - get wasted as a fucking bubbleblower and take off into the day? Because it's not! I'm going to break both your walkstubs and tie you to your stupid motorcart, if you ever, ever do this again --"
"Um," Marduk says. She's staring at the ceiling like she's praying it'll descend and rescue her from witnessing this torrid pale spat, and right now, you can't blame her.
You gingerly touch your face, but there's no blood on the skin or on your lips, thank heavens. If you have a bruise later, you'll throttle her. "Shoosh!" You pap her on the head, and then, on second thought, you grab her hands, claws digging in to keep her from pulling away. "Shoosh, you big baby," you tell her sternly. "I'm not dead! I'm perfectly fine, and if you do that again, I'll bite off your hand."
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None-the-less, the conversation must have served its purpose, because after a moment, they jam the heat-recognition button, and the door snaps open to reveal Sipara and Marduk.
"Pheres, you fetid little fishhead," Sipara snaps, as soon as she sees you, and she steps in close like she's going to grab you. Instead, she cracks you across the face with the back of her hand. It's a hard hit, knuckles crooked to bruise, hard enough to make you stumble and the room spin.
It tastes like there's blood in your mouth, and you touch it gingerly - or maybe that's just the sour tang of shame, because Sipara looks like she's ready to burst from exhaustion and fury and the sheer relief of seeing you alive.
"Are you feral? Do you think this is just, like, what people do - get wasted as a fucking bubbleblower and take off into the day? Because it's not! I'm going to break both your walkstubs and tie you to your stupid motorcart, if you ever, ever do this again --"
"Um," Marduk says. She's staring at the ceiling like she's praying it'll descend and rescue her from witnessing this torrid pale spat, and right now, you can't blame her.
You gingerly touch your face, but there's no blood on the skin or on your lips, thank heavens. If you have a bruise later, you'll throttle her. "Shoosh!" You pap her on the head, and then, on second thought, you grab her hands, claws digging in to keep her from pulling away. "Shoosh, you big baby," you tell her sternly. "I'm not dead! I'm perfectly fine, and if you do that again, I'll bite off your hand."