fleetlogs | => PHERES: Abscond.

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.."

"Oh?" She can't see anything off in the distance, and she tilts her head to the side. But Hinnom isn't joking.

A few seconds later, the two forms come into view.

"How did you know?" she asks, surprised. They're both swaddled in suncloaks, and, yes, the one is highblood huge. For a moment, she's hesitant: maybe it's not the right troll? Sipara hadn't mentioned he'd be with a friend. But then the light catches the smaller one's horns, and the caps flash white in the daylight.

The academy is full of highbloods: there isn't a single teacher in her hall that is lower than teal, and even after two sweeps, talking to them makes her feel like she's swallowing nails. But Sipara asked her, and she said yes, so she squares her shoulders and steps forward.

"Greetings," she calls out. If she pretends this is one of her mock trials, then maybe her voice won't shake. "My name is Marduk Lector, of the Imperial Legislacerator, division eight under Proctor Sungazer."

"I was sent to collect Pheres Dysseu?"

It's a miracle, he says.

"If it was a fucking bother, I wouldn't have offered." They look down at him, and when he tilts his head to meet their eye and grins, OA remembers why they found him appealing in the first place. Nice rack, nice face, and nice manners. It's just a shame about the eyes.

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

Their timing is impeccable, because there's two trolls walking towards them right now: a kid who's actually smaller than Pheres, which seemed pretty fucking impossible even a minute ago, and a jadeblood, who seems kind of familiar.

It's fucking weird. OA doesn't associate with jades: blue and up, or yellow and under is their rule of thumb, because if life in Carnival has taught them anything, it's that olives to ceruleans are a bunch of uppity motherfuckers that make good paint, and pretty much nothing else. Of course, you can't make paint from jades - they're too rare, no matter how much the painters bitch - but the point remains.

And then she opens her mouth, and the mystery is solved. Right. Imperial trainee: that's what was tripping them up. The tunics they wear aren't exactly unique, but the belt holes for the sashes that bear their proctor's caste pretty much are, even if she's missing hers.

"Riccin Kāyata," they say, stepping forward. There's no need to look intimidating: when one's got over a foot of height on their side, it's impossible not to. "Of the Imperial Helms program, division six, under Proctor Shepherd. If we're dropping rank."

"But I don't see why the fuck we have to start up that raucous noise." They smile, showing their teeth, but there's nothing friendly about it, or the pointed lift of their eyebrows. "Who the fuck sent you?"

Edited 2014-12-01 03:28 (UTC)

"Stay away from them," Castor tells zir, wary. "They look dangerous."

He doesn't need to say it twice. Hinnom's a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them: the highblood-looking fucker might as well be twice zir height, and the sort of lowbloods that associate with highbloods aren't the sorts you want to lift your spirits with.

Marduk - little, round, chubby-cheeked Marduk - has stepped between zim and the older trolls, and ze is comfortable with that. If it came to strifing, ze's got zir sword, and Castor, and zir centispidermom, sleeping under the collar of zir cloak... but no way it'll come to that.

Marduk'll make sure of that. Right?

Edited 2014-12-01 03:35 (UTC)

They.. aren't threatening to put out his eyes, are they? No, no. He's being unflattering again, he's sure, but just in case, he slides on the glasses.

(Everyone hates his eyes, but honestly, he doesn't understand why. He likes them better than the rosewood they should be: the way they blind him in the light is thoroughly unlovable, but they look nice against the swarthy complexion of his skin, and they go well with his clothes.)

(It's not like it's an actual mutation. Some of the people they let past the culling pits these days are honestly distressing; he saw a girl with multiple pupils, for heavens sake, and yet no one understood when he commented on that.)

The world is comfortably tinted when he opens his eyes, and for the first time in hours, he can actually see with some clarity. It's just in time, too, because the jadeblood steps forward, her chin set, and he can actually see her face, rather than a sunbleached gray blob.

He's good with faces, and he doesn't know her at all.

"Um," he says, glancing towards OA - no, Riccin, evidently. He doesn't recognise this Marduk, although the name seems familiar, and evidently, neither do they. "I'm sorry, but - who are you, exactly?"

Oh.

The Shepherd is a name that she hasn't heard often, but it's impossible not to recognise it. Her face and symbol are everywhere, after all, as the current dean of the Imperial Education Programs.

Marduk hadn't realised that she was a proctor as well.

She's never seen a helmsman trainee before, either, and now that Riccin has identified themselves as such, she's desperately curious. Everyone knows they start the wetware installations at a young age, but if there's apiculture integrated into Riccin's flesh, there's no way to tell: they're swathed head-to-toe in cloth, from the suncloak to the boots to the gloves on their hands, and there's nothing to see on their face save for the blue spark of their eyes and the white dabs of paint.

It's not the time to ask, anyway. They've drawn themselves up to their full height and they're looming over her, their lip curled in a sneer. If they're trying to intimidate her - well, it's working, because Marduk has to steel herself to keep from stepping back. "Who the fuck sent you?" they ask, voice flat.

Their eyes might be blue, Marduk reminds herself, but if they're part of the helmsman program, then that means she's the highblood. Most of the kids in the legislacerator program are jadebloods, like her, but there's more than a few violets and indigoes: all the isolated castes, that can't be regulated by tealbloods for one reason or another.

Her roommate is one of them, a snotty indigo cusp with her nose perpetually stuck in the air. She can't think like Marduk right now, because all she wants to do is duck her horns and leave. No, she has to be her roommate. What would Sappho say?

"His moirail," she says pompously, and her voice doesn't even crack, because she's Sappho, and she wouldn't care about a helmsman, even if the proctor was the Empress herself.

It's that thought that sends her stepping forward to the smaller figure, chin up, horns canted.. not defensively, but assertively. She doesn't have to be defensive, not when she's the highest caste here by two.

"Your handle is RS, isn't it?" She holds out a hand, and she steadfastly ignores the way it's shaking. "My online personal identification tag is forsakenSebayt. We've engaged in prior communications."

Edited 2014-12-01 14:09 (UTC)

"Oh!"

Now that she's said it, he can see it. He'd never thought of her face before, but Marduk looks almost exactly like he would've imagined: small, round, and thoroughly academic, although he hadn't anticipated the snaggletooth.

He hadn't anticipated her height, either. She's the same height as him, although her horns are shorter, and it's nice not to have to tilt his head up for once to see someone's face. He takes the proferred hand, shakes it, and then has to hastily pull back as a spark falls towards her. "Sorry," he says: his instinct is to duck his horns and back away, but that just flings more sparks free, and his arm is still looped through Riccin's. "Um. Try not to let them -"

Too late. She flinches as a spark hits her skin and sizzles, and he flushes. "Try not to let them touch you," he finishes, a bit lamely. "Sorry. Bad reaction to.. a drink. Ah. It's nice to meet you?"

The little jadeblood steps past them, like they don't even matter, and Riccin's temper flares. Trainee or not, they're apt to knock those fucking horns off. It's one things when indigoes act like that - it's their fucking right, as top of the rung. But they're not about to let some rotblood stick their nose in the air like a goddamn blueblood.

But Pheres speaks up first, and a better idea strikes them instead. Sipara wants this fucker to lead her poor diamond home? Well, fuck that.

"Drink, my ass," they say, sharp and pointedly cheerful. "Some greenblood slipped him some honey and shit ain't going too well for him. He's an out-of-towner, so I was going to take him to my hive.. but fuck, if you think your dorms'll enjoy the lightshow, go the fuck ahead."

They won't. Bringing a free troll onto academy grounds after hours is a great way of getting reprimanded. Sneaking a sparking lowblood into the dorms, though - that's some cullbait shit, right there.

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[sipara is officially That Asshole]

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