fleetlogs | => PHERES: Abscond.

It's hard not to think of Pheres as a kid, even knowing he's nine, when he's so short and cowed. Good thing they were selected for the Imperial Trainee Program early, before the effects of low feed and low allowance could really set in: being stunted like that would've fucking sucked.

He angles his head back to peer up at them, his weird, mismatched eyes skimming across their 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 they're getting ready to ask what the fuck he's looking at, he laughs.

"What... what are you calling yourself?" the little redblood asks, imitating their cadence, and they arch their eyebrows. 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." They're not entirely sure why he laughed, and the uncertainty makes their words sharp: there's nothing worse than being left out of a joke. "The fuck is wrong with OA?"

Edited 2014-11-30 18:52 (UTC)

Their words are sharp, and the arm around his shoulder feels like an implicit threat. His mouth is dry and he swallows hard, keeping the smile in place through sheer force of will. "Um!" he says eloquently. "There's nothing precisely wrong with it, haaah, just --"

If the sparks were hard to see through the static of his screen, then they're proving more difficult to see in the blinding light of the day. Still, even Pheres notices when they start increasing, little flashes of white dancing at the edges of his vision.

It's blurring his already bad vision, and that does nothing to help his growing agitation. Worse yet, the sparks seem to worsen after he notices them, and when he spots one drifting towards OA's gloved hand, he uses the opportunity to duck free from their loose hold, hopefully before they notice.

Could the spark sting even through fabric? Probably not, but judging by the way they snatch their hand away, startled --

"Sorry," he says, backing up towards his phone, and he can't help the appeasing chirp that escapes between words. "I - sorry! OA is fine."

Edited 2014-11-30 20:47 (UTC)

He's cowed, but evidently not helpless. He moves to tug his shoulder free, his grin now more of a grimace, and he tenses like he's about to bolt. "There's nothing wrong with it," he says hesitantly, "just--"

If he says something else, OA doesn't notice, because something else has attracted their attention. At first, they'd thought the little pinpricks of light drifting around were dust, or sunspots: sometimes that shit happens, when you're out in the day. But they're increasing, and they watch, eyebrows furrowed, as one drifts down onto their gloved hand.

As soon as it touches the glove, it becomes obvious it's not a fucking dustmite.

"Fuck!" It stings like they've just been burnt, and it's shock more than pain that has them snatching their hand back. Pheres watches, wide-eyed, says something, and then he fucking chirps at you, voice pitched in a wriggler's appeal.

When they look at him, it becomes obvious why. Hidden deeper in the shade of the awning, they can actually see the way his fucking horns are sparking at them, little bursts of psionic aura pulsing from the bottom all the way to the top. His eyes are trying to do it, and it's fucking unpleasant to look at, the way the colour tries and fails to pulse around the remaining lense.

"What the fuck did you drink," they demand, incredulous. "Straight honey?"

Edited 2014-11-30 22:07 (UTC)

What did Sipara say? He's close enough to the phone to snatch it up, and he types in her number even as he keeps talking. "I didn't drink honey," he protests, "here - ask Sipara --"

The sudden movement has left his head spinning, and the spike of adrenaline is not playing nice with his system: instead of leaving him clear-headed, it's just making him nauseous and sweaty-palmed. It's sheer luck that he doesn't drop the phone.

Thank heavens for moirails. Sipara picks up after the first ring, still miraculously awake, and he hisses at her, frantic as he stabs the speaker button: "Explain why I'm sparking!"

Edited 2014-11-30 22:29 (UTC)

Eventually, she'd let the call drop.

There'd been a purpose behind that: she figured she'd hang up, and then call back, until Pheres remembered to get his goddamn phone. What she hadn't anticipated was the fact he left his phone on silent, the better to ignore any unwanted calls, and it was only the second time she hit his voice-mail that it struck her.

("Hello! This is Pheres Dysseu speaking, book repairer and vendor of antiques -- if this is an emergency, please call my moirail, at...")

So she'd broken a few glasses, left a few nasty messages, and sat down to stew. He'd remember to his phone eventually, and call back, shamefaced and apologetic. She'd been expecting thirty, forty minutes: she was pleasantly surprised when he called back in less than ten.

She could've done without the frantic tone, though.

"Whoa, babe," she says, alarmed. Her voice comes back tinny. Did he put her on fucking speaker? "Calm the fuck down, okay? Shit. Okay. Um. Sparking."

"Someone slipped you a honey pill. It's not fucking contagious, so if OA's giving you shit, tell them to cram it up their nook." Wait, fuck: she can hear her own goddamned voice, and it strikes her, too late, she's probably on speaker.

Strike that. Of course he'd put her on fucking speaker. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Every time Pheres gets agitated, the sparks increase exponentially, little rivulets of energy crackling across his horns. Now that they're not in the danger zone, OA has to admit: it's kind of cool to watch.

Especially 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 sparks when she mentions nooks sends them shooting far enough to zap OA.

They shift out of the way just in time, and watch as it hits the ground and dissipates.

"Whoa, Nzinga," they say, amused, "keep it in your fucking pants. Your moirail's present." They waggle their eyebrows at him, but he doesn't seem game for the joke: he averts his eyes without even a flash of teeth. "So baby boy here's been huffing honey. Alright. Schoolfeed me: is this shit gonna wear off?"

He isn't the sort to spark, usually: it takes a special kind of agitation to do that, and he doesn't let himself get into those sorts of situations. But the alcohol has made him volatile and the honey has loosened his already unsteady control, and try as he might, right now, he can't fucking stop.

It's making his eyes hurt, and while Sipara and OA talk, he fumbles to remove his contact. He pokes himself in the eye, but he manages it, finally, and he flicks the freed contact onto the ground, next to the shredded braids. (Someone will be very confused in the evening.)

He blinks rapidly, and then scrubs at his eyes. 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 marginally better.

Goddamnit, are they trying to flirt with her?

It's hard to tell which outrages her more: that, or the way they're calling Pheres baby boy, like he's theirs. (PC once said that OA could incite her by reading a grocery list. That's a bit far, but - it's not exactly untrue.)

(They are the fucking worst.)

"An hour," she says, keeping her voice pointedly flat. OA will jump on any fucking thing they can, so she just won't give them anything. "Maybe two? If you'd just stop being a -"

No, no, now she needs to shut the fuck up. It strikes her that Pheres is quiet as the dead in the background, and she knows how fucked up OA is: she doesn't want that little thought to become literal, because OA decides a dead moirail is the best pitch solicitation. "If he's calm, he should stop sparking," she says instead. "As much. Shit isn't gonna stop completely for awhile."

Edited 2014-11-30 23:08 (UTC)

Baiting Sipara is like playing Catch the Faithless at Carnival: it's easy as fuck, and no matter what line they put out, they always get results.

Except for now, apparently. She's not biting, and they don't know why. Girl ain't exactly the calmest motherfucker around: usually, that sort of a comment would get them locking horns for awhile, but right now, she's acting like she just doesn't even give a shit.

It's irritating as fuck. The fact they're wasting their time talking to a shitblood like Sipara, with her worthless blood and her worthless face, is something she should be grateful for. But whatever. They aren't going to jump for her fucking attention.

"Then I suggest you fucking calm him," they say, dismissing her, and they turn away from the phone. Pheres is scrubbing at his eyes for some fucking reason, but right now, they don't care. "'cause right now, he's a flashing bullseye for every finface with an engine kink, and yeah, not going to fucking deal with that."

If they're going to haul him back hive, then he'll need a cloak: he's small enough he could just tuck under theirs, and that had been their original plan, but that seems like a great way to get fried. They'll just grab some shit from inside, instead.

They start to step inside, and then look back. He's moved his hands away from his face, and -- the white eyes, staring psionic bright from the dusky skin, are creepy as fuck. Maybe they'll grab him some glasses, too.

Edited 2014-11-30 23:35 (UTC)

There's a creak that she doesn't recognise, but the sound of a door slamming shut is obvious enough. Sipara waits a moment, holding her breath, but it seems like OA headed inside.

They're still at the fucking hivestem? Well. At least that'll give Marduk some time to arrive, and then maybe OA will just go and fuck off.

Pheres is quiet, and although his has a camera, hers doesn't even allow pictures. It's still the same piece of shit she was assigned by the Empire, eight sweeps ago, and spending caegars on it always seemed wasteful as fuck - but yeah, now she's kind of regretting it. What the fuck is he doing?

"Pheres," she says carefully. "You cool?"

He's a flashing bullseye for every finface with an engine kink. Well! Isn't that a fucking awful thought.

Sun exposure seemed a melodramatic way to go, earlier, but now he's considering it. Or maybe crawling into that closet and seeing if he can't hide under the pile of coats. The moirails are probably sleeping: they wouldn't notice.

But Sipara's voice distracts him from his melodramatic thoughts, and he startles back to reality. He can't go and die, right. She'd kill him.

"Yeah," he says. His voice is raspy and dry. He has been out in the day for far too long. "I mean - yes. I'm alright."

"I can't stop sparking, though." He pulls a face, for all that no one can see him, and shakes his head, just to see. Sure enough, the gesture still leaves a spray of light all around him. This is awful. "Do you suppose -- should I just go back inside, and sleep it off?"

"They're greenbloods, mostly," he adds. "Maybe someone just - didn't realise I had psionics, and put the honey in on accident."

"Fuck that and fuck you, dude," she snaps. "That's a terrible idea. Sit your ass dow- no, wait, don't do that, just. Lean against the wall or something."

And then she flounders, because - she fucking sucks at pacifying. She's better than she used to be, at least: how many sweeps has it been since she marked up his face in one of her snitfits? But as far as bars go, 'no longer a risk of physical maiming' is a pretty low, shitty one for diamonds.

But she can't succeed if she doesn't try, and he does need to cool it with the lightshow. Sparky psionics are the ones that end up in kids bootlegged ships, or dead because some dumb finface thinks eating a psionic brain will get them powers.

"Midbloods parties suck, anyway." She leans forward on the nutrition mesa, raps her claws against the edges. "They're always so fucking cold. Iunno why you're constantly shilling for them, anyway."

"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 she exaggerates her words, stretches the vowels until it matches his fakey-fake highblood cadence. "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--"

Edited 2014-12-01 00:04 (UTC)

"Rude! I don't - I'm not shilling for greenbloods," he says, appalled and laughing despite that. "What does that even mean?"

He leans against the wall - not because she told him to, but because he feels like he's going to fall over, and he'd rather OA not come out to him sprawled on the pavement. He can't read them very well, but he suspects they'd probably just leave him.

She's mocking him, and he's not really offended - fear is a thing that can cut through his foggy pan, evidently, but not real offense - but it's a familiar game, and an easy role to fall into. "I don't sound like that," he sniffs. "And - and - you're making it sound terrible, but it's not like it's untrue, is it? They're -"

Shit. He can't remember if you're meant to count your own caste, or not. He pauses, and then gives up. "Well! They're only three or four castes above us. And you've said worse! Besides, you can't talk about me and my parties, unless," he says, teasing, "we're still pretending you're not - haah - fooling around with poor Boopis?"

Edited 2014-12-01 00:13 (UTC)

"Don't you poor Boopis me," she retorts. He sounds calmer. Good! "And I'm not fooling around with her. Rude. I already dumped her once, remember?"

She glances around, but - of course, her manager's in her own hive tonight. Good. Talking shit about poor Boopis is always hilarious, but the snitfits are distinctly not. "Which, like, don't get off topic. I guess it's better that you're chasing greenbloods for your fun instead of like, teals."

She snorts. "Don't fuck teals," she advises. "Might as well go fuck a pail. It's probs warmer."

Oh my god.

He laughs, mortified, and buries his face behind an arm. "Stop! Stop, oh my god -"

Or at least, that's what he tries to say, but once he's started laughing, it's hard to stop. He manages to catch his breath - and then the image of some poor troll, and icecubes, and a pail strikes him, and he dissolves into laughter all over again.

Oh, no, she broke him.

"Come on, dude," she laughs, because fuck it, it's almost two in the fucking evening and she is 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, write that down, I'm not fucking joking --"

Just as he's calming down, she comes out with that, and Pheres dissolves into embarrassed laughter all over again.

"Stop, stop," he manages, finally, gasping for breath, "my pumpbiscuit is going to explode, and it'll be all your fault, you - you horrible person -"

He doesn't hear the door open behind him. Probably for the best: his face is currently buried behind an arm, and he's wheezing for breath. His pumpbiscuit exploding from sheer stress might actually be a legitimate possibility.

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 him a honeypill. Fucker 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.

No one pays them much mind as they stalk through. There's a few glances, but they're probably not the first fucker to trespass today: these sorts of events are rife with trolls being retrieved by their moirails, and the residents must figure they're here to retrieve theirs. Whatever, let the swillbloods think what they fucking want.

There's a pair of moirails dozing in the cloak closet. OA steps past them, snatches the first cloak that looks around the right size, grabs the shades off of one's face, and absconds before they can do more than drowsily complain.

There's a half-drank bottle of alcohol by the door. They contemplate it, and then snatch it, too. It smells like it's sopor-based. If Pheres is still sparking, then they'll just make him drink it: that'll fix it, one way or another.

But apparently, that's unnecessary, because when they 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 they half-expect ruddy tears.

But he's not sparking. So that's something.

They snatch the phone - it's not hard, when his grip is already loose enough that it looks ready to drop - and then they dump the cloak on his head.

"Good job, nookmunch," they say. Pheres is spluttering behind them, and on the other end of the line, Sipara sounds like she's doing the same. "Kid is sparky no more, so hell, maybe I won't ditch him."

There's a sharp intake of breath, and then she's actually growling over the phone, rattlereeds going so fast they think she might break something. "Later," they say brightly, just as it sounds like she's about to say something, and they end the call.

For good measure, they turn off the phone, too, and cram it into the pocket of their suncloak.

The laughter cuts off when the world goes dark. Pheres splutters with protest, interrupted mid-laugh, and he flails to get his face free.

When he manages, he's holding a cloth suncloak in his hands. He blinks at it, and then looks up. OA is there, pocketing his phone, and oh, right, they were coming out, weren't they?

He had been worried about them earlier. Offending them? He can't remember why - he didn't want them to leave him, probably, but it feels like there was a better explanation than just that.

Oh, well. He'll remember.

He shrugs on the cloak, tying it up tight. It's a little too large, but greenbloods don't tend that much bigger, and it's easy enough to roll up the sleeves. It's cheap and mass-produced, and he's grateful for it: the fact the hood is meant to accomodate even girthy bluebloods is the only reason he gets it up and around his horns and hair, and once it's up, it's easy to tie the horn straps to keep it in place.

OA is looking at him. "Thank you," he says, polite. (They stole his phone! Rude.) "Haah, ah. Shall we go?"

Edited 2014-12-01 01:14 (UTC)

"Mm."

It's not much of a response, but they don't have much to say. They get to waste their day guiding some rustie home, and it's not like they've got anything to talk about. He doesn't go to Carnival, and they don't give a shit about books or history, which is apparently what he and Liyiji talk about.

They could grill him about his moirail, but fuck that noise. The thought has merit, though, and that reminds him there is something they need to ask.

"Where the fuck are you staying at?"

OA has started walking, and he strives to keep up. They're as tall as a highblood, and it feels like they're taking three steps for every one of his. It only takes a minute of this before he gets fed up, and loops his arm around theirs.

"Sorry," he says, when they look at him. He flashes his most winning, apologetic grin. "Short legs!"

Where is he staying? Um. That's.. a great question. Landmarks flash through his head, but street names are not his forte: he'd left his combustioncart at a resting facility, he knows that much, but he hadn't exactly been planning on going back to his hive today.

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: facilities where your cart will be watched are the only option for keeping the cart.

"I'm staying in my cart," is what he says, after a long moment of hesitation. "But, haah, would you believe -- oh, this sounds awful. Um. I don't precisely remember what facility I left it at."

"But there can't be a lot of them out here, right?"

Edited 2014-12-01 01:30 (UTC)

Hello, there's a tiny-ass rust attached to their arm. They slow, looking down, and he's grinning up at them, looking apologetic as fuck.

Whatever. It's not like they're going to complain about arm candy, even if it is too hot for this shit. Even through the oiled fabric of their cloak, the sun is making sweat bead, and they just want to get the fuck hive.

They listen with increasing incredulity as he talks. He lives in his cart. And --

"You lost your cart," they 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. They don't have time for this bullshit, and they're ready to go the fuck to bed. "Whatever, you're just staying in my hive. Come on."

Sunlight has never felt so good.

Hinnom scrambles up the ladder first, and then loiters by it, shouting down encouragements. The climb up the ladder is difficult - legislacerator training is a lot of things, but physically taxing is not one of them - but it's worth it, when she crests the last rung, and emerges, huffing and puffing, to the light warm on her face.

Her eyes adjust quickly, and it's marvellous to actually be able to see again. "Oh," she says, pleased, "I know where we are! I can lead from here - we're only a block away, now -"

There's no objection, so she takes off walking. It's hot, but right now, fresh from the chill of the underground, the heat is a refreshing change.

Oh, god, it is so fucking hot.

"You should make this quick," Castor says from behind zim. Ghosts aren't affected by the sunlight: they're just psychic imprints! There's no ganderbulbs to be bothered by the changing light, and so he's trailing Marduk, and ze's following him, eyes unfocused just enough to for his outline to solidify.

Ze ignores him. Marduk gets weirded out whenever ze starts talking to ghosts, and it's not like he cares. Castor died long before ze was even in the slurry, and sometimes ze thinks he's not really talking to zim: he's just talking to be talking.

But sometimes he says things worth paying attention to.

"There's two people up ahead," he reports a few moments later. "A lowblood.. and a highblood?"

That's weird. It's way past noon: almost no one's awake at this time of day. "Hey, Mardie," ze chirps, darting forward until ze's walking in step. "I think we seen your boo."

Their cloak is warm. They're warm, appealingly so, and grabbing hold of their arm was the best decision he's made all day, especially when they slow so he can match them.

"Sheer luck," he declares, and then adds, with a spark of inspiration, "It's a miracle, really."

He's not expecting the invitation to their hive, and for a moment, it throws him. They're not suggesting - no, no, of course not, and he feels terrible for considering it. OA's been intimidating, but not exactly untoward. It's not his place to cast aspersions.

"Ah." He chews on his lip. "If that's alright with you! I wouldn't want to, haah, be a bother.."

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[sipara is officially That Asshole]

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