the online communication hub of HMS PORTMANTEAU

MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:00 AM
AA: duuude.
AA: space is full of muties. >:{ didja know that?
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:00 AM
ID:
ID: lolll. and a hello to you too.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:00 AM
AA: loool. hi. :diamond1:
AA: i got the pupa and i'm gonna be bck todaaaay.
AA: orn tmrnrnw, not surne. space trnaffic.
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:01 AM
ID: :diamond1:
ID: ofc it's got muties. they don't all get culled on ascension. people are 2lazy.
ID: and perf, about time. how is the pupa doing?
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:02 AM
AA: she's okayyy. she doesn't get any of this, she's, like, F I V E.
AA: but w/e, she dgaf. as long as she's got a job. i just, like, told hern she was needed morne at the shop.
AA: and didja know id's dudes one? >:??
AA: like, ofc it's got muties, but i wasn't expecting them to, idk, be arnound to be  M E T.
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:04 AM
ID: uhh. id mentioned it. when i was biting him once. a cuspy, yeah?
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:10 AM
AA: wtfff.
AA: and you didn't tell meee. >:{
AA: >:"{{{
AA: >:"{{{{{{
AA: how much does id like him??
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:12 AM
ID:
ID: idk, i didn't exactly ask. whyyy?
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:14 AM
AA: loool. b/c if he crnoaks it, i so want the body.
AA: i wondern why he isn't, like, like lu?
AA: he doesn't have psi, but she does. and she doesn't have fins, but  H E  does.
AA: is that bc hern nernvous system's basically a marnoon's, and his isn't?
AA: they'rne both abt olive temp.
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:15 AM
ID: sips. sipppsssssss.
ID: you can't take the dude apart. =>:P
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:16 AM
AA: bllllllpt.
AA: ofc nooot, he's alive, doofus. >:P we'rne not abt vivisections, tyvm.
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:16 AM
ID: and it's like. a spectrum, isn't it? just like with the indigos and the violets.
ID: some of them are still blue enough to get voodoos and fins?
ID: and who knows, he might have psi.
ID: lu's was all clogged, remember.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:17 AM
AA: yeahhh.
AA:
AA: man, i wish we'd gone to a prnopern clown cullpit, that one time.
AA: i used to do that when i was, like, a sprnat, and prnactice taking aparnt bods in 'em.
AA: but i nevern saw any finned fucking indigoes.
AA: temasek's 2tight forn that shit.
AA:
AA: and huhhh. >:?
AA: d'you think if you, like, tapped him, you could tell??
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:19 AM
ID: huh. there's a damn indigo with full fins and shit in the iep.
ID: i beat him up before we met. =:)
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:20 AM
AA: pbbbbllllllllllpt.
AA: 'kay, how about, no indigoes that  A RN E N ' T  pernsonalised slurnrny babies?
AA: also, like, rniccin told me when we werne seven that his gills don't even   W O RN K.
AA: they just have a fucking pump in his chest to make 'em.
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:21 AM
ID: huh. weird.
ID: pheres told me id's pitch grew fins and gills when he molted. i wonder if they work?
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:21 AM
AA:
AA:
AA: grn8 q.
AA: i'll ask. >:}
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:24 AM
ID: lolll. but why're you interested in the cuspy ones?
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:25 AM
AA: i'm internested in evernything, nerndlet.
AA: and waderns arne grnoss. and weirnd. like, 'kay, ernrnybody's always like, oh, sup, they'rne barnely  T RN O L L S, they'rne so  W E I RN D, and obvs, that ain't, like, totes trnue. they spill slurnrny like evernyone else, ect, ect.
AA: but they'rne   W E I RN D.
AA: therne's, like..
AA:
AA: this'll totes sound like witchy bullshit, f y i, and it prnobs is, bc, like, wtf. but this fuchsia says he can make ppl live longern by doin' shit to his blood. distilling it? and that's just, like, his bloodline, it's not evernyone, but.
AA: have you evern thought abt why they live so long?
AA: they live longern than   V I O L E T S.
AA: the emprness's been alive forn lits fucking  F O RN E VE RN.
AA: yrn not supposed to live that long. it's, like - even lobsterns die eventually. theirn telemernes never, like, unrnavel, so they just keep grnowing and grnowing, but therne's a cap to it. they stop being able to molt, and then they just get caught inside of theirn shell, and it crnushes them to death.
AA: but it's not bc they'rne old.
AA: they don't  G E T   old.
AA: and highbloods don't  G E T  old fornevern, and evern, but eventually, they  D O. evernyone does. except forn fuchsias.
AA: and, lbrn, i'm nevern gonna get a hold of a fuchsia body. >:P
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:31 AM
ID: kayyy.
ID: maybe they're like jellyfish?
ID: there's a jellyfish that never dies of old age.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:36 AM
AA: jellyfish arne barnely even animals, dude.
AA: they'rne just floating bags of a nernvous system, that's why they can do that.
AA: trnolls arne complex!
AA: and fuchsias arne, like, even M O RN E, bc: gills, durnability, eternal fucking youth.
AA:
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:36 AM
ID: idk. maybe it's their molts.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:36 AM
AA: i wondern if one loses an eye, how quick it grnows back?
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:37 AM
ID: a question we're not gonna find an answer to, soz.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:37 AM
AA: loool.
AA: idk, therne's that heirn in chat. >:P
AA:
AA: but idt i'm gonna tussle w/ him.(edited)
AA:
AA: sozzz, i went off on a tangent. and ino yrn not, like, abt medical shit.
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:38 AM
ID: turtle organs don't break down with age.
ID: maybe tyrians are advanced sea turtles.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:38 AM
AA:
AA: wtffff.
AA: mb, mb, mbbb.
AA:
AA: hm.
AA: d'you think, like, a high violet's like.. morne tyrnian 'n not?
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:40 AM
ID: ehhh. idk. heiros was kind of high violet? but not, like. fuchsia. he's mostly the only fish i ever really dealt with. and thrixe.(edited)
ID: and i guess, like. vexscale and carnifex.
ID: which, uh. there's a very noticeable difference.
ID: between 'violet' and 'fuchsia' when you put them in a room together.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:41 AM
AA:
AA: blllllllpt.
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:41 AM
ID: don't blllpt at me.
ID: they're just different.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:42 AM
AA: somebody's gotta have done rnesearnch on all of this. but if they have, it's, like, nevern gonna be  S E E N.
AA: bc the empirne doesn't  W A N  T  it to be seen.
AA: y/y/y, and it's imp to know howww. >:{
AA: the only rneason they'rne on top is bc they live longern, and they'rne strnongern.
AA: like, that's  I  T.
AA: if evernybody had that, it wouldn't be a   T H I N G.
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:42 AM
ID: all we'd need is the long life.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:43 AM
AA: and if we could figurne out how they do it, like, that's the   S A M E.
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:43 AM
ID: i mean, psi is better than strength most of the time.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:43 AM
AA:
AA: loool. y, trnue. long life and sparnks enough forn ppl not to die with the firnst swing, rnight? >:P
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:43 AM
ID: i'm not a scienstiff, obvsss. but it seems like it must have something to do with molts.
ID: i mean, they just keep popping in to them and coming out all fixed up.
ID: warmies only get one molt, like. ever.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:45 AM
AA: 'kay, like, you'd think, but prnobs therne, bb.
AA: everny time you molt, that takes a shit ton of enerngy.
AA: and that wornks if yrn herne fornevern, yeah? yrn bodies always prnoducing.
AA: but the oldern you get, the less enerngy you have.
AA: we could trniggern molts all day long, it doesn't matter if they can't keep it going halfway thrnu, bc they don't got the  S T O RN E S.
AA: and how'rne you gonna get 'em the stornes?
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:47 AM
ID: huhhh.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:47 AM
AA: rnight??
AA: i mean, idk, we could trny molts.
AA: evernything's wornth  T RN Y I N G.
AA: it's what they werne doin' at that, like, commune i was at. wherne i got burned.
AA: seeing if they could trniggern molts at will to fix shit.
AA: but idk how you get past that  G A P. it's one thing w/ highbloods.
AA: but lowbies??
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:49 AM
ID: hmmm.
ID: so you think cuspies have the bridge.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:51 AM
AA: idkkk.
AA: i'm gonna trny it all. i mean, like, no harnm, no foul, rnight?
AA: idttttt my bloodline molts. like, at all? >:? my ancestorn didn'ttt.
AA: so mb i can trny seeing if i can trniggern one.
AA: but, like, yeah, mb on cusps. i want a fuschiaaa. >:{ but w/e.
AA: i'm not gonna be able to  G E T  one.
AA: so you wornk w/ what you have.
Reba | ID (Maroon) UV ('Violet')Today at 11:53 AM
ID: you're probably not going to get a cusp either tho.
MAR | ID (PINK) CL (TEAL)Today at 11:58 AM
AA: a lot more likely, dude.
AA: fourn cusps, and theyrne almost the same age. how many arne we hatching out pern cycle??
ID: four? =>:???
AA: y/y/y.
AA: phern's dude, lu, hap, liable.
ID: oh. and idkk.
ID: i guess there's a lot more indigo ones allowed.
AA: i guesssss.
AA: makes sense. one's mutie-weirnd, one's, like.. illegal weirnd.
AA: .. indigoes arne still bettern 'n nothing, tho.
AA: i'll ask ullane what she does w/ hern old patients, i guess. >:? she's, like, legit, she wornks on  E V E RN Y O N E.
AA: anywaaay. maidcafe'll be hauling the bb back planetside.
AA: and i'll be back soooon.
AA:
AA: phern's pissed at me, tho. which, like, p surne he alrneady  T O L D   you, but w/e.
AA: we'll figurne it out.
AA: i got you a weirnd statue frnom herne. yrn gonna h8 it.
AA: .. i think that's it. >:}
ID: pheres is pissed at you? =:???
ID: what happened?
AA: lool.
AA: he's just maaad. same as always.
AA: and, like, bite-y overn it. >:{
ID: mmhmmm.
AA:
AA: >:???
ID: he had to be mad over something.
AA: blllllllpt.
AA: he's mad that i'm not biting at ppl enough forn him.
AA: bc, y'know, none of ourn folks  O V E RN L A P.
AA: we like diff peopleee. we always have.
ID: =:??? biting at them for what?
AA: idk, dude, do i look like i live in phern's fernrnet-y mind.
ID: mmm. i'll talk to him about it.
ID:
ID: anything else go on that i missed?
AA: dnw abt ittt. we'll handle it. >:} we always dooo.
AA: and naaah.
AA: what abt you?
ID: well, good.
ID: not much. hopefully soon. =:) i'm getting antsy.
AA: loool.
AA: well, i'll be in soon. >:} ttyl??
ID: ofc. message me when you're back on port, i'll bring flowers. =:P :diamond1:

You get one day to recover before Dorset's pounding on your door at the crack of false dawn. "Ayy, you blarmy widget," she shouts, her voice brassy as the blood in her veins. You hiss, ducking down deeper into the sopor, but there's another thud a moment later as her shoulder hits the door. "Getcher useless ass out here, afore I go bruisin' myself tryin' to wake you!"

"If you don't get up," Hap Ret groans from the chaise, "I will personally fucking drown you, Sipa."

So that's how your morning /starts/.

Six days on the HMS Glory has done nothing to soothe your disdain of it. Some trolls live here! Listening to Gwydyn, he - they'd - said that there were violetbloods who'd lived here nearly since the very first century it'd been open, and to them, it probably seems like home. To you.. it's just foreign, and it's an abomination in a way that even Nott can't match. Nott Terminal scares you, because it makes you think that it's a planet. If you close your eyes, with the vents blowing air, the lights shining warmth and the ceiling so high up you can scarcely even see it, you could think you were still on Alternia.

Glory doesn't even try. The ceilings are low enough that Hap can rake his fingers along the tops of some rooms, and the fucking jadeblood had had to try four different rooms before they'd found one that could fit in Liesin. The air here burns going down, like it's filled with the same distilled poison as the water. The water glows pink. And everything is always /cold/, from the air coming out of the vents to the light radiating from the walls.

And things creak: when you walk, when you breathe, when you so much as fucking sneeze.

But Hap's never seemed bothered by it, at all. He gets up off the chaise like he doesn't even care, then half-stumbles over to the sink. When the water comes out of the sink, the same ruddy pink as always, he doesn't hesitate before he splashes it across his face. "Dude," you whine, and he clicks his fangs at you idly. "That's gross!"

"It's too early for bottled water," he complains right back. "Holy shit, are they trying to torture us? This is what happens when you pick fights with our unjust overlords, kiddo. Speaking of which, I've been thinking, and you should've gone for the heart instead of the gills. Would we both be in space right now? Yes."

"But is being spaced better than being awake right now?" He never takes off his scarf. He just tugs up his braid and scrubs at his face with the clothed end of it, like that does anything at fucking all. "Yes," he groans. "It absolutely is."

When he offers you the sink, you pointedly bite through the lid of your water bottle instead.

Maybe you should tell him about the water. Maybe you should tell all of them! The thought'kkkkkkkkkkkks been plaguing you, ever since the first time the Akairi leaned in and told you that it was blood. There's nothing else to drink, outside of your personal stores of water, and so there's no point to it. It's seeded through the entire station. To cure radiation, they'd said, like that makes any sense at all. Like it ever /could/.

You know what's in blood. Plasma, water, platelets.. there's nothing there that can cure wounds. There's nothing there that should keep people /alive/.

But you'd seen the helmsmen, sleeping in the core of the station, lined up in their coffins with pink running through their veins and biowire feeding into their spines. And the water..

When you fill a glass and hold it up to the light, it's as pink as the tubes you'd seen down below.

You're quiet as you follow Hap out of the room. Maybe too quiet, because he keeps looking back at you, and then he slows down entirely. "What're you thinking about?" he asks, nudging you with his shoulder. He's so touchy for a maroon. You lean back in instinctively, for all that all his layers always leave him feeling cold.

"About if you can wrestle a musclebeast. You've got strength psi, right? Like, there's no reason you couldn't, unless you're too fucking scared to try --"

It's hard to tell if you actually like Hap Ret. He's prickly, and he's aggressive, but not in the same way you are: he's lighter than you, lighter than Hadean, but so much worse than even Matari. He keeps biting at you, every time he thinks you're going out of line, and he never likes it much when you actually bite back.

But you miss Hadean, and you miss Pheres, and he's yet to do anything more than shift to accomodate you when you loop your arm through his. So that counts for a lot, you think.

And he's better than anyone else on this fucking station.

"Gods above," Dorset complains, as soon as you walk through the door, "look what the cat /finally/ decided to drag on in. The mediculler and boy wonder! Don'tcha worry now, mate, we'll find you somethin' to do this time around." Everyone's sprawled out around the smallest common room. Dorse's got her legs up on the nearest table, her laptop precariously balanced between her knees, and she doesn't even look up while she's talking - she just lets those ears of hers flick once, twice, like she can identify you from foot-steps alone.

Liesin's lounging on the floor below her, and she makes a clucking noise with the tip of her tongue. "Lad," she says, half a warning, but all Dorset does is roll her eyes.

"Don't worry, now~" She finally looks up, taking in the two of you with barely disguised distaste. "Ent like they care, Liesin. And besides, ain't like I'm saying nothing that isn't true, mm? He hasn't so much as lifted a single thing this entire trip. I said to Radiostar, ey, why'd you go and hire a maroon for a bruiser job? Why'd you go and hire a bruiser for an archaeological dig?"

"And 'dyou know what they said to me, love?"

"Mm," Liesin says, disinterested. Hap Ret's going tense next to you, and you know what's going to happen. It's just a matter of time! So you loosen your grip on his arm, careful, and when he looks down at you, you just raise your eyebrows, tapping a hand against the arch of your brow.

"They said - oh, don't you worry none, I'm scarcely paying him at all. So I expect that solves that mystery." Dorset's still going, her attention back on her laptop. She's typing away like talking during it doesn't bother her any, and you'd almost find it impressive, if she wasn't such an ass. "She's still paying 'em too much, though, but eh.."

When you glance up at Hap Ret, curious, his mouth thins to a line. When you waggle your eyebrows at him, pointed, this time he does reach up and take off his lenses, passing them neatly to you. You're not embarrassed to say there's a thrill of satisfaction over that: he's got lovely eyes, the same dark maroon as Pheres's, and against the pallor of his skin, they're stark and striking for it.

Not that he's particularly going for the aesthetic right now.

"That's what happens when you've got a pretty rack on you," Dorset sniffs, and Hap Ret rips free from your arm, stalking forward across the room. It only takes a moment for him to reach her. Then, fast as lightning, he slams his hand down in the back of her screen.

But there's no shriek, no screen, no horrified holler. You bounce forward on your toes to see, but Dorset's eyes are just flaring red, as bright as Mah Jie's psi, and the laptop's glowing with the colour. So's Hap's hand. "The fuck are you doing?" she snaps, her accent abruptly gone. "Are you fucking serious, man?"

"If you let go of my hand," he says, conversational, "I'll show you exactly what I was going to do --"

Liesin's bopping to her feet, her ears pricked and her eyes wide as she takes the two of them in. Dorset's snarling, loud enough to echo in the room, and Hap's picking up in pitch to match, his lips curled back to expose his fangs. (Sharper than yours, you're sad to see, and without the razor-thin edge of filing.)

She looks at you, briefly --

-- and you laugh, sliding the lenses into your hair. "Soz," you mouth at her, "not my fault!" But she doesn't catch the end of it, because she's already fussing at the two of them, her voice pitched just low enough that you can't hear.

You don't bother to try. Hap's having fun, you decide. No point in intervening, and so you turn on your heel and flounce instead.

At least, that's the fucking plan, until your spiral sends you face-first right into Gwydyn.

Your last impression of their skin had been on the way it felt between your teeth. And you hadn't paid much attention to it: you'd gotten a mouth full of filaments too thick to chew and blood that'd tried to clump in your throat. The skin hadn't /mattered/. You'd been left with the impression it was cold, and it was damp, and it was entirely too soft.

It turns out that was true enough. When you hit him, you /bounce,/ and their hide barely feels as if it dents in response. "Miss Nzinga," they say, eyeing you. Even after days of exposure, it's still hard to read the expression on their face, but that doesn't mean the tiny flick of their fins doesn't set your mouth to dry. "I wasn't expecting to see you in here. But what a kind convenience."

You want to say you're about to go. There's fine lines under their eyes, and they're watching you like they expect you to. Gwydyn Akairi: eleven sweeps, the same as Ico, and that thought gives you a little more context to the way they eye you up. They're watching you like they think you're a pupa.

And you're not here to fulfill their fucking expectations. Posture, Hadean had said, so you shrug, tossing your horns in the sort of rake that could've killed a troll, if they weren't barely six inches. "Get breakfast at my table," you tell them, lifting your chin. It's not a question.

You're not expecting them to actually oblige.

Their plate is full of meat and shrimp, so you fill yours with fruit just out of spite. There's something painful about watching them spear the shrimp one at a time and drop them in their mouth, delicate and pointed, so you don't: you stab at your fruit instead, cutting it slowly into smaller and smaller pieces.

Their plate is full of meat and shrimp, so you fill yours with fruit just out of spite. There's something painful about watching them spear the shrimp one at a time and drop them in their mouth, delicate and pointed, so you don't: you stab at your fruit instead, cutting it slowly into smaller and smaller pieces.

"The weather outside is lovely," they say, to break the silence. Their face is straight, their expression solid. If they're having any particular feelings at all, beyond bland interest, it's impossible to tell. You'd asked Pheres for advice on Radiostar: you should've, you think, asked for advice on Gwydyn. But what did Pheres know about fuchsias?

The only time the two of you've ever dealt with one almost ended in you dead.

You stab your latest piece of fruit a touch more aggressively. "I thought about it," you tell them, "and the thing about it is - maybe they should get to make a choice. But not on my girl's back."

They tilt their head to the side, fins fluttering. When their lips purse, it's almost the face that liyiji would make when he was thinking. Or that Myrrha does, sometimes, or Riccin, back when the lot of you were all young, and they hadn't decided to pretend like they were laid and hatched in Temasek's personal creche. It's almost, almost humanising.

Then they blink and it's gone.

The table the two of you are sitting at is farther away then the rest of them. You don't think Hap's even noticed that Gwydyn's in the cafe, he's so focused on tussling with Dorset, and the distance's such that no one can quite see you. When Gwydyn pitches their voice soft, no one past the two of you can hear. "It wouldn't be on her back," they say, gentle as a lamb, and you know the next words before they come out. "She'd be helmed regardless, as a Gemini. Isn't this a kinder means of it?"

Someone'd found sugar the other morning, and you'd hauled it over to the table. You tip it open, now, and dump it into your mug, stirring it until the tops frothing with foam. "She's not going to get helmed, dude. That's what I'm here for." Nothing they're saying is wrong! She will be, if you can't figure out a way, and there's nothing Pheres will be able to do about it. There's nothing you'll be able to do about it.

"You have a strong heart. Strong convictions." Does everything they say have to sound so smarmy? If they were lower, you'd dump the cocoa on their lap. As is, you stir it a little more aggressively, letting the spoon clank against the sides. "But those alone aren't going to do anything for your pupa. Are you going to stop a clown from claiming her as a ship, when you're barely brown?"

When you look up, their expression's as mild as their tone. You hate it. You hate all of this, and you don't know what to do about it. Could you cull them? Could you try? Because your fingers are curling around the glass like you wish they could wrap around their throat. "I'll figure out a way," you snap, but there isn't as much conviction as there should be.

And you know they hear it, because when they smile, there's genuine sympathy in it. Now that you've thought of Liyiji, you can almost make sense of their expressions. They're stoic in the same way he is, but their mask is bland disinterest, and not his sharp-eyed contempt. "It's kind of you to wish for something better." Their voice's so /gentle/. "All we can do is the best that we can do. And she'll have a better life here, then she would otherwise. She'll be like Radiostar."

"So, like, depressed and manic?"

".. she'll be better than Radiostar," they amend, and for the first time, their brows knit. "My progenitor didn't - think their isolation through. Or the effects it could have. He didn't have a mind towards the individual. He only cared about the masses. Which is why we are working to do better, here, Radiostar and I." There's a fervor to their words, now. It's not religious. It's just.. conviction, all the way to the bone, the sort that you wish you could reach for right now. "We'll fix the station. We'll free the helms. And we'll make this better, one place at a time."

"And you'll sacrifice my pupa to do it," you snap, and you shove your mug to the side. "That's not helping things. You don't even know if all of your fucking helms are /alive/. They've been asleep for /millenia/, dude, do they even have brains? Did you even check? Or d'you figure that's not up to you? Can't have some fucking ceruleans go and take a peek, 'cause it might get rid of their /choices/?" Your voice's catching speed. It's raising in pitch, too, and off in the distance, the din slows.

You don't care. "You don't care about choices," you accuse them. "You just want to keep one hand down your pants about how much of a fucking /savior/ you are, and fuck everyone else over in the process. Like, d'you even care about any of this? D'you even care about your fucking jade? 'cause it doesn't sound like you're giving them a choice on if they even /care/ -"

It's always easy to forget, until Gwydyn stands up, exactly how much bigger they are then you. Because the answer is: entirely too much. Hap's taller than you. Everyone's taller than you, on here, but Gwydyn's thrice your width, and with horns to match. When they curl their lip at you, showing fangs as long as half your finger, the hair on the back of your neck pricks But you're tired of fucking posturing. And you fought Muireach, who was nearly twice your size in your memories.

What's one more fish? You already tore out their gills.

So you snarl at them, loud and brassy enough it would make Hadean flinch, and when Gwydyn's fins flare in response, you don't flinch: you slam both hands on the table and scramble to your feet instead, so angry that you feel like you're almost shaking with it. Something in your ribcage twinges, but that's just one more thing to ignore, like the pinprick of pain as your prosthetics fangs dig in. If Gwydyn lifts their hand, you'll already be moving. You can't afford to take a single hit.

You can't afford to start this fight, but your mouth is already running. "Or is your jade why you took her?" you demand, brittle. "To play fucking hive with them? To give them a little friend? 'cause, sorry to say, five's too young for quads, and it's sure as /fuck/ too young for a grown-ass /moirail/ -"

Gwydyn snarls back, raises their hand -

- and there's an arm in your face, an elbow shoving into your shoulder with enough force to send you stumbling back.

"That's fucking enough," Hap snaps, and when he looks back at you, your ears pin back reflexively. You've never seen him actually angry before. Worried! Concerned! But not /angry/, and some of the wind in your sail dies, just like that. "Are you two serious? Really, overseer? You're going to maul a nine sweep over an argument?"

There's something to be said about this level of anger. Hap's deflating you. But Gwydyn's just swelling all the more; their fins are flared to their full extent, their lips curled back, their shoulders strained. When they speak, it's polite as it always is, but the tension's evident all the way under the surface. "Move," they say, clipped, "or I'll cull you as well, sir Kaikai. This is not your business."

"You're trying to cull my partner. Pretty sure that's the definition of my business."

"If I have to cull half of our rustbloods," he says, "then I will."

Neither of you are expecting Hap to laugh.

"Is this what it is? Are you serious? And I thought you said he was above this," Hap says to you, a sneer in his voice. "But tyrians will do as tyrians do. If this is a matter of caste, overseer, then /fine/."
"You're not going to cull Nzinga. And you're certainly not going to cull me," he snaps, and reaching up, he rips off his scarf in one swift motion.

You're expecting the way the scarf falls apart in his hands. With nails like that, it'd be impossible for it not to. It hangs like a deflated starfish around his braid, like the most pathetic banner you've ever seen, and that's what keeps /trying/ to catch your attention. There's a hundred cutting comments that you could make: this is a level of theatre you'd have expected from Hadean, or Pheres, or even Iconic, but not /Hap/.

But it's hard to think of wit when his fins are fanned out like a beacon. Because Hap Ret has fins, as large and obstentatious as Gwydyn's, fanning out on either side of his face. They're large, and they're garish, and they're streaked with the same dark maroon as his eyes --

-- but they're not maroon at all, is it?

Gwydyn's fallen silent. From behind the lot of you, you can hear something hitting the floor in a soft twinge of silver. "If you're going to start a fight," Hap says, taking another step forward, and he lifts his hand, showing off the sharp arch of his claws, "then why don't you pick on someone your own age, asshole?"

"And your own size. And your own caste."

You'd thought it was shock, at first, that had Gwydyn going silent. But his fins droop, instead of fanning out further. he loses some of the tension in his spine, and just like that, the room seems to defuse. Hap's still coiled like he'll hit him, but Gwydyn isn't.

Gwydyn barely seems angry at all, now. "You're right. I shouldn't be stooping to an adolescent's level. My apologies, miss Nzinga. Although I am certain that's the reaction you wished to provoke, one would hope I am able to withstand the nettlings of a wounded brownblood."

You bristle, leaning forward, but Hap's arm is still in front of you, solid as an iron bar. He's not looking at you. He's not letting you past him, either.

"And we are of an age, and of a side, sir Kaikai. But of a caste?" Gwydyn takes a step forward. You can feel Hap stiffen, but you don't fully understand why, not until -

"I'm not a cusp," Gwydyn says, gentle as an executioner's noose, and. Oh.

we'rne tlking on herne, bc if i gotta hearn yrn fucking monologues one morne time, i'm shooting both of us.

You don't, as it turns out, like Glory.

The helm on the station is cheery and friendly, friendlier than any program ought to be. She's singing to herself, voice as bright as the starlight outside, as she leads you down the halls - and her cadence is just foreign enough that each word just sounds off, like the edge of the steel under your feet. The ground's hollow under here. You can feel it.

The roof above you is hollow, too, but you don't need to feel that to know it. How many layers of metal are between you and the vacuum? How easy would it be to rip through them, and expose the lot of you? Radiostar had threatened to space you. You'd looked it up, after, when Hap had curled onto the chaise to sleep. You'd watched the videos, and the way that the ice had spread across the bodies so quickly, like cracks in the surface of their skin, and -

Your mouth still tastes like blood, despite how hard you brushed.

You really, really do not like Glory.

And when you step into the room, with a window that covers the entire west wall, it doesn't help things at all.

It's been nearly a full sweep since Muireach mauled you. You hadn't thought it'd left an impression! You're not fucking Pheres, flinching over the breeze and every time someone moves too fast near you. But Gwydyn stands up, his fins fanning out, and you nearly flinch.

Nearly. At the last moment, you roll back your shoulders instead, giving your horns a sharp toss. You'd scrambled through your old stage kit just for this, and with your paint on, you almost feel like you're back in the ring. You don't know if you can kill a tyrian, if push comes to shove. You'd /tried/, earlier, and all you'd gotten was blood in your tonsils, and flesh in your fangs to show for it.

(All you'd gotten, with Muireach, were struts that'd taken a quarter sweep to heal, and a port that'd hung half out of your arm.)

"Sup, auntie,” you call out. Your gut says to swing into the nearest chair. But Hadean had said to posture, and - if you’re going to get spaced either way, you’re not going out like a chump. So you swing right up to where he’s sitting instead.

One palm plants on the table. You swing onto it, neat as catapulting over someone’s head, and you catch the nearest chair with your foot as you go. It slides back and out of the way just like that, and you stretch out your legs in its absence, rolling back your shoulders.

The crack of your joints settling into place, in the silence, is as loud as a gunshot.

“Auntie?” he asks.

"'cause fuchsia's are girls." You loll your neck back to peer at him. There's something grating in exposing your throat like this, but - posture, Hadean'd said, posture, and who does it better than Ico? "All the important ones, anyway. But y'know that."

He laughs at that. Of course he does. Fish always love Ico, and if they didn't - well, you're dead either way, aren't you, if you don't figure this out?

(He's probably bored, Hadean had said, too, and that tamps down some on the way you want to sink your fangs into his gills over how very /amused/ he sounds.)

"I do know that," he says amiably, and reaches out. Your ears flick back of their own volition, but he's not reaching for you. No, he's taken a hold of a butter knife, instead, and the bread that your elbow's perilously close to. "Is that a compliment, miss Nzinga? I didn't realise you were capable, but if that is the case, I suppose I will have to take it. I think that the commonality of accolades tarnishes them. Ideally, they should be a rare, precious thing, to preserve their value, and so that an individual can find refuge in the novelty of them, if nothing else.."

"Oh my god, shut up," you snap. "You talk so much!"

And that doesn't get you a laugh. That's /fine/. He just looks at you, eyebrows lifting, and you curl your lip back, because your heart's going a million beats a minute, but that doesn't mean nothing. "We're here to talk," you huff now, in the face of his judgement. "If you're gonna cull me, dude, use your hands, not some fucking /monologue/."

"Most people enjoy my speeches." If he wasn't a fish, you'd say he almost sounds petulant as he smears butter across his toast.

"Most folks are probs too scared to tell you that you sound like a ponce, auntie," you tell him, brisk. "And, like, sucks for them! But you fucking are, so get over it. Information for information, dude, or, like, for reals, you gonna stab me and get it over with, already? 'cause if /that's/ the case, I got the addie already written down for my rail --"

Your palms are wet. Your throat is tight. Your heart is pounding away like an ostrich at the races, or like Bennue had scarpered, the one time he'd taken a swing at Tahtli and Tahtli had decided to bite back. But if you just keep thinking of this like the stage, it's fine. Gwydyn feels like a gravity well in the center of the room. Everything rotates around him, from the table to your attention, and you couldn't tear it away if you tried. But you're used to that. You can work with that. The whole art of fighting is that you can pretend you look away from your opponent, but if you really do, you'll die.

It doesn't matter if you look at him, in the here and now, but it feels like you could, and there's a reliability in that. All you have to do is think of it like the stage, and you can make this work.

"There's no need for that," he says, and this time around, he does sound petulant.

You hate seadwellers. Pheres has told you a hundred thousand stories about them: about how they're the youngest of the castes, and they were hatched of a mutation that proved more lasting than any of the previous. Stories where they were the first of the trolls, and the most archaiac, and everything in them is how the troll species should be. Stories of how they were the best, or the worst, or everything in between, and stories where they were just trolls, the same as anyone else.

The Empire has always held that the seadwellers were the first, and the best, of all the trolls. When the planet evolve, the seadwellers were the ones that had first emerged from the mire, and every troll after that was just a deviation from the norm. In the nights prior to the culling verdicts, things had just gotten worse and worse with each cohort cycle. What had started with the warming of the blood ended with the loss of gills, and the development of psionics: an ability that brought on great power, but ate the trolls from the inside out, one piece at a time, until there was nothing but an iron-reeking husk left behind.

It doesn't matter what the truth of the matter is, though. What matters is that they're different, and when Gwydyn frowns at you, his hide sits strangely on his face. It doesn't pucker and pull. It /slides/, skin pulling taut over the blubber coating the muscle, and it dimples where on anyone else, it would wrinkle. "If you're honest, miss Nzinga -"

"Sipara," you correct him, "or Nzinga. Don't start that miss shit with me, dude."

"If you're honest, miss Nzinga," he says, "then there'll be no need for aggression at all."

You hate fish. You hate Glory. Most of all, right now, you fucking hate him.

You hadn't asked Hadean if you ought to tell the truth. If Hap had asked, you know what he'd say! But Hap's plan hadn't worked out from the get-go, and you've never.. you love your moirail, but he's never been the brains, out of the two of you, and he's not here right now. So you sigh, long and extended, even as your pan is trying to run in circles.

Then you come to a decision.

("You don't care about her," Matari had said.)

"I'm here for my pupa," you say, flat, and you shift around on the table to watch his face properly. "You came, you stuck in her your creepy-ass white ship, and guess what, gillslit? I want her back."

He blinks at you. You give him a moment, but when you realise no answer's coming, you roll your eyes. "Don't play coy, dude." You could rip out his throat again over this. It'd heal back. It's tempting. But you let your claws curl into the wood of the table instead, impatient little gouges, even as you keep your voice steady. "Mah Jie al-Auja! Hexcode #969b0c. Little bitty, red psi, portware all the way up her --"

"I know who you're talking about," he says, watching you, "but you came all the way to take back your.." He pauses. The slide of his eyelids is slow and liquid. "Helmsman?"

"My pupa," you correct him. "She's not anyone's helmsman, fucker. Not even yours. Is that why you took her?"

He just looks at you.

"Do you know, miss Nzinga," he says, "what it is to hold the world in your palm?" Then he holds up a hand, as you open your mouth. "Forgive me. This is a monologue. But in this case, there's nothing to do for it: it must be said, and we will get back to the point shortly. My lineage is the Akairi. We are the third eldest on-going lineage of tyrians in the entire genetics system: the second eldest has not been hatched out for several centuries, now, and the oldest of us all, of course, are the Peixes. Our books say that when the first Akairi emerged from the caverns, the Empress herself lifted him from the waters and told him that his role was to serve. Regardless or not if it is true, that is what we have done ever since."

"We cannot challenge for the throne. We are not even considered eligible for it." When he lifts a hand, the fins rustle. "We are no better than violets, when push comes to shove, in the eyes of our majesty. But we serve a unique purpose, at least, over violets. Because this planet - this entire station - is our jurisdiction, and it has been for the past six generations. The Empress told us to guard it, when it was first created, and to turn it into something amazing. So they did. And then she told us to maintain it, and so we have. My forefathers never thought twice about any of it. It was their duty, and so they performed it. It is what we were laid for, miss Nzinga. It was what, some of my predecessors would argue, we were created for."

"But the station -" He leans back, looking up at the ceiling. Earnest isn't a word that you've ever applied to a seadweller. And Gwydyn is so foreign that he feels like he should barely count as one: his fins drape longer than any fish you've ever seen, and the spots are so elaborate, they feel like they should barely qualify for a rickshaw. But no matter how strange he is, the way the light settles on his features makes him look as if he's glowing to match the strength of his words.

"It is a marvel," he says now, as carefully as if he's blowing glass. "It is the most wonderful thing most trolls will see. You said that I could have a cerulean come in, or an indigo, and subjugate your mind. Take the memories that I wish to have from it! And that is true. I could have. But we operate on a different standard, here. The Empress leaves the station in our jurisdiction - to my jurisdiction - and in exchange for keeping the fuel running to the Fleet, and keeping the heavy elements coming from the planet, she allows us to do what we will. And that means it can be /better/ here."

"People can make their own choices. I told you - you could tell me the truth, or you could die. And you made your decision," he says, "and I would have respected it. You couldn't do that in the Fleet. You couldn't have done that on the planet itself, if the legislacerators came to your door - if the policeradicators didn't go prying, then they would've sent someone else to start. What we have here is a marvel. And the entire thing is fragile. If I err - if I so much as /slip/, even the once - the Empress could take it from me, and my entire lineage, and it would all be lost. You're looking at me as if I'm saying something queer. Am I?"

"Everything you say is queer," you snipe. You wipe off your hands on your pants, subtle, stretching out your fingers like you're trying to stretch them. "Is there a point to all of that, dude? So what - you feel like you've got a little slice of utopia?"

"I feel as if I have a very large slice of utopia, compared to everywhere else," he corrects you. "We are not perfect. We have pirates. When the Fleet comes knocking, or the legislacerators hit the bay, we must let them do as they will: my personal distaste towards the actions of subjuggulators can only contain them so far. We can only minimise, we cannot /stop/. We do not act against our better's interests, in the Fleet, or when they come to the station." A beat. "But we can minimise," he repeats, "and that is why I took your wriggler."

Seadwellers move quickly. When he stands up, it's all at once, in a movement so slick that you scarcely register it. Then he's holding out his hand to you, already stepping back away from the table like he never expects you won't take it.

You don't. He blinks at that, eyes widening - then his eyes roll up as he turns on his heel, and heads towards the door. "Come along," he calls over his shoulder, and you're left scrambling to catch up. He's got a foot of height on you, and legs to match. He doesn't slow down as he abandons the table and heads towards the farthest door. "I'll show you where she is."

look, srny for, uh.

rnipping out yrn thrnoat.

RP: sipaaaa.
RP: you didn’t tell me you’d gone after Mah Jie.
RP: where the hell did they get taken anyway?
AA: giiiiiirnl.
AA: ofc i went aftern hern, was i supposed to  L E A V E  hern?
AA: phern'd grnow a whole head of grnays.
RP: A little birdy told me you would’ve left her.
RP: which like...why.
AA:
AA:
AA: excuse the fuck out of me?
RP: maybe, depends on the excuse.
RP: why would you let a fuchsia grab one of your own, Sipa? If it weren’t for Pheres.
AA: like i fucking   W O U L D.
AA: wtfff. >:{ did phern say that, orn hads, orn maidel?
AA:
RP: maybe you should tell him that then, cause he seems to think you don’t care about her.
AA: n, maidel actually   T R N U S T S   me.
AA: mb i will fucking will. wtfffff.
RP: Pheres did but don’t you chew on him. I’m asking, not him.
RP: if you’re gonna talk to him then don’t go in biting his head off.
RP: not gonna solve shit.
RP: plus I wanna know for myself.
RP: what else drew you up there?
AA: if you srnsly have to ask, i should block you rnn, ngl.
AA: like, what the fuck.
RP: cause there’s always something.
AA:
AA: wtf?
RP: block me if you want, Sipa, but running isn’t like you.
AA: i came up bc phern's girnl got   Y A N K E D.
AA: and you don't yank lowblooded wrnigglerns to stick them in a goddamn helm, orn keep them as a pet, orn what the fuck   E V E RN  she got nicked for.
RP: nah, you don’t, but you don’t even like Mah Jie, do you?
RP: so it’s for Pheres.
AA: she's a wrnigglern. they ain't ppl you can like 'til they'rne, like, people.
RP:
RP: seriously, girl?
RP: she made it past the caverns, she works in your damn shop.
RP: how the fuck is she not people to you.
RP: how is she just a tool for you to I dunno, be mad at highbloods, or impress Pheres.
RP: which: okay, fine, could be worse things, way worse shit.
RP: But what the fuck.
RP: you hate how highbloods act toward us so much and here you are treating her like she’s disposable.
AA:
AA: like, lits, idk wtf yrn prnobs is, dude.
AA: people shouldn't nick wrnigglerns. so i'm getting hern. i don't have an opinion on hern, because i'm, like, what, fourn whole sweeps oldern 'n hern? if she was disposable, i'd tell phern to go get a new fucking kid.
RP: what, is the only reason you didn’t because he’d be mad?
AA: i said she ain't ppl i can   L I K E. i don't like  K I D S.
AA: bc i am not a   K I D.
RP: oh my god.
AA: d'you want me to go playing pattycake w/ a bunch of fourn sweep olds?
RP: you don’t have to LIKE her but you don’t even give her basic respect
AA: bc, n, phern can play jademindern, but that ain't my deal.
AA: wtf.
RP: oh for fuck’s sake you’re being ridiculous
AA: you've lits nevern even seen us  I N T E RN A C T, and yrn coming out w/ all of this shit frnom, like, what.
AA: phern getting spooked?
RP: can’t you see how your attitude is just like a blueblood’s?
RP: Nah, I haven’t
RP: But I also know that Pheres knows you better than anybody.
RP: better than me or Hads.
RP: so if he’s worried, I’m worried.
RP: yeah, he’s kind of weird, not gonna deny it.
RP: I think he acts jade too. But tyrian tits, girl.
RP: this is kind of messed up.
AA: you lits swung in herne like, oh nooo, siparna, why'd you go to space? like you'd evern go just to save a  K I D, what's yrn actual factual   M O T I V E?
AA: then you jump on me saying i don't want to hang out w/ the sprnogs.
AA: then you say, oh, yrn just trneating hern like a tool, yrn just using hern to imprness highbloods.
AA: oh, yrn making hern disposable.
AA: like, the actual fuck, dude?
AA: a kid got taken. i am getting the kid. i don't have an opinion on the fucking kid, bc, like, guess what? she is a  P U P A   living undern my fucking rnoof, and hern entirne   J O B   is prnetending to catch a goddamn rnat with the fucking fernal that phern drnagged in. like, wtf. if she's a tool, instead of one of phern's charnity prnojects, lemme say, she's a rneal fucking shitty one and we don't have a prnoject that even uses it.
AA: and, beeteedubs, i'm, like, rnisking my actual fucking life herne to steal back a wrnigglern frnom a heirn? on a space station, like, halfway acrnoss this stupid solarn system, forn phern? so idefk what bulge you've got up yrn ass abt this entirne goddamn issue, but it's insane. like, soz i'm not  F L U F F FY   enough forn you on avernage, i guess?
AA: but i don't even give hern basic rnespect?
AA: go fuck yrnself, she's not even  S I X.
RP:
RP: that's not what I meant and you know it.
RP: It's not about being "fluffy", that's stupid.
RP: it's. ugh.
RP: fuck, nevermind.
RP: forget about it.

When you enter your room, there's a fuchsia draped out across the chaise with your Steelborn plushie held high above his head.

“I had never pictured you the sort that enjoyed toys,” he says, warm as honey. When he shifts, his filaments shimmer across his shoulders, a rustle loud enough that it makes your ears pin back.  “You always seemed very dignified in your interviews. That is not to say you were not jocular - you seemed to just possess a kind of self-assurance that would bely the need for any sort of comfort item, regardless of your age.”

When he turns to look at you, his eyes are as strange as any other seadwellers. The skin on the back of your neck pricks as he blinks once, then twice, the transparent lid flickering into place.

When his eyes open, they’re damp again.

Your room on Glory isn't particularly big. There's room enough for the recuperacoon tucked into the corner, and the chaise next to it. They're not meant to be double-boarded, no matter what the fucking oliveblood thought: there's a bit in the wall that folds out into a desk, but this close, it'd barely take a step for the seadweller to be in your face.

The seadweller? The Akairi.

"You need to be careful," Hap Ret had warned you, and your palms are damp, even as your jaw tightens. You've never been one for fear! It's just not something that's ever come natural, not since you were six sweeps and had a lion's paw on your throat.

You refuse to feel it now. You don't let yourself step back, and you lift your chin when he sits up, folding your arms tightly together. "And I didn't figure you were the sort of fucker to break into a troll's room," you shoot back, sharp. "Dude, what the fuck?"

“Is it breaking in, when I own the entire station? But. Ah. I suppose I had my expectations too high." He shifts, slinging his legs over the side of the chaise. They're long, as long as Muireach's, and -

You don't step back. You fucking refuse, for all that something in your ribs twinges.

"You are eight,” he concludes, dry, as he straightens up, “no matter how impressive of deeds you have committed. And with eight sweeps comes, I have come to realise, a certain amount of incompetence. Did you really think that I wouldn’t know who was boarding my station, miss Nzinga?”

“I hope you don’t mind my calling you that. But Oriole is a very.. Barcino kind of name.”

You've never been one for fear! But right now, you almost, almost, /almost/ feel it, all the way in the core of your gut.

When he stands, he's got over a foot of high on you, and it's all of your patience to keep you from just going at his throat. He looks nothing like Muireach! Nothing at /all/, when push comes to shove, but when he fans his fins out, that doesn't stop your throat from tightening. You hate him. You hate this.

"The name's Oriole." Your voice doesn't quaver! That's good, because you'd cull the both of you before you ever let it. "Oriole Orchard, dude, same as I said online.

He exhales all at once, his gills fluttering with the release, like you're some big disappointment. Then his mouth pulls down, even as he leans forward. You could've moved! You don't, because what's he going to do, cull you? He could've done that when you walked in.

Instead, his palm hits the wall above your head.

You're penned in, and as far as things go, that's not fucking better.

If he was blue, you'd have already ripped through him. You've culled bluebloods! It's no big deal, when push comes to shove: if you hit hard enough, anything will crumple. And you haven't taken off your prosthetics even once since you've gotten up in space. All it'd take is a thought to dial them up, pull them back, and take a swing.

But this is a tyrian. You'd barely even bruised Muireac,h in the end, for all that you'd bled him, and you'd nearly died to cause that one, minor nick. And you'd kited him the entire time, staying too fast for him to move. Gwydyn isn't that large.

Muireach was never in your fucking space like this.

("You have to be careful," Hap Ret had told you, and you hate him almost as much as you hate this fish.)

"Miss Nzinga," Gwydyn says, brisk, his eyes strangely bright, "why are you on my station?"

This close, you can smell the chill of him, a crisp ozone to the air. You can feel his braeth on your skin, and - a hysterical, giddy part of you can't stop thinking of how /jealous/ Ico would be, if he was here. This's the sort of thing he lives for. But the tyrian leaning over you is an adult, and a fish, and he might cull you, and it turns out you're not Ico.

There's nothing exciting about this. There's nothing even fun, and you just want him /gone/.

"This was fun, but, like if you don't move, brah," you warn him, and oh, goddamnit - there's the treacherous hitch, like you're a pupa, like you're afraid - "I am gonna cull you."

He doesn't move.

He just tilts his head, the frills of his gills shifting with the gesture, and then he doesn't have time to move when you sink your fangs into them.

You've never bit someone in the gills before. You've never even so much as touched them, outside of the seadweller that Myrrha had hauled to you that once. And then the body had already had time to warm! This is like biting into _ice._ There's nothing but blood vessels in gills, piled on top of each other in the hundreds of layers to carry oxygen back to the body, and your fangs rip through them like paper.

Blood runs in streams down your face. It's flooding your mouth, too much to swallow, too much to do more than choke, but you don't let go. You /hate/ culling people like this. It's too personal! You can feel the pulse of his heart against your lips, the frantic hop-hop-skip as he tries to push away -

- but he's not the only one losing blood. You've got an arm slung around his back, holding him in place, and your other arm's wrapped around his, just on instinct. Everything's on instinct. You've done this before, and your parasites know how to dig into your veins for power when he tries to thrash.

It doesn't last long. The pressure of your teeth's enough to pinch his airways, and it takes ten, fifteen seconds for him to stop thrashing. Another twenty seconds for the push of his heart to still. And then -

- you let go, shoving him back, and you bend over in half, gagging as the blood seeps out of your mouth.

Of course, that's when the door creaks open.


"Holy shit. Holy /shit/." He drags a hand down his face even as he's stepping forward. He kneels down next to the body, placing a hand against the undamaged side of the neck. Then he rolls the lids back. He doesn't seem bothered by the chill of it.

He doesn't seem bothered by the blood, either, because as soon as he's satisfied, he's back on his feet and turning towards you.

The snarl's reflexive. He doesn't pay it any mind, though, anymore than Ico ever did - and there's something of Ico, too, in the way he reaches into his pocket, snatching out a handkerchief to start on your face. Maybe that's why you let him, for all that you're rattling like an engine the entire time. It'd be easy to bite him.

You don't, not even when the cloth drags hard across your lips, scrubbing like it can soak the blood out of each thin line. "I said be less aggressive," he scolds you. "I said, hey, kid, don't be a fucking mess. We're going to be /subtle/. And what do you go and do?"

"You murder the Akairi."

"He was in the room," you hiss back, petulant, but you don't get much more out, because as soon as your teeth are bared, he's scrubbing the handkerchief over those, too.

If he was less aggressive about it, you'd bite him. But he doesn't act like he even thinks you might, and that, mostly, is what saves him.

"Well, if he was in the /room/, I guess it's a better call to go straight to /murder/ than just /leave/. Goddamnit, Sipara. Are you okay?" He takes a step back now, his brows furrowing. "He didn't injure you, did he?"

You ought to say something witty, or clever, or smart. Something that'll smooth out his brow, because he's been trying to handle this situation for you from the get-go, and he's been trying to wrangle you, and this -

This is all your fault.

"He knew my name," you say, miserable, and then your breath catches. But what starts to come out as a son strangles into a scream. Because behind Hap Ret, the body is moving.

Gwydyn's sitting up, his face scrunched up like he's smelled something unpleasant. You shriek, jolting back, but he just sneers at you, showing off fangs just as sharp as yours. "Calm down," he orders you, irritated. He's got a hand to his gills, and there's fuchsia slipping past his palm and between his fingers in sticky rivulets. "I don't know why /you're/ screaming."

Hap Ret spins on his heel, hard enough to set the silk of his scarf shifting. Part of you wants to bristle over the way he moves in front of you! The rest of you's content to stay behind him, and let him, because when Gwydyn pulls his fronds away -

His gills are in tact.

okay, lmfao, who's actually in C H A RN G E of this shit? like, forn rneals, we'rne all rnunning arnound, and prnepping, but since when's a jade evern been put in charnge of shit?

no offense, bb, i'm surne yrn verny competent in yrn own way. xoxo

also, like, no answern on wtf the watern is  P  I N K  still, the hell?