♉ [PROSE | DAY SEVEN]
Sep. 12th, 2018 09:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
activatingaggro"Morning," you call out, "don't cull me 'til I've got words out, dude!"
It took you three fucking hours to find Gwydyn's set of rooms on this station, mostly because you'd refused to ask Radiostar. You'd completed the final shiprun with them burning holes into your back the entire fucking time, and you're not keen to test how far their patience goes: you already pushed it once with their sproglet, and apparently, jostling with their boss was just shoving it all the further. Jostling with their boss, and ripping out his throat, and..
Well. Maybe their ire's a little fucking deserved, at this point in time. So you hadn't asked them, and you'd just relied on your instincts instead. They were a fuchsia. There were only so many places damp enough for them to live, and when you found the fountain - such an egregrious fucking waste of water, in space - you'd known you were close. The doors hadn't had any symbols on them, but you'd picked the grandest one you could find, on a hunch.
Sure enough, after you slam your shoulder into it, it opens.
"You didn't say why I should wait," Gwydyn says, leaning against the doorframe. They're in actual fucking pajamas, like they're some sort of decadent that doesn't sleep in slime. But then again, Hap doesn't, either. Maybe it's a wader thing: they're too worried about shit getting in their gills to sleep like normal, civilized trolls. "And coffee, I am afraid, is not enough."
"But it's really great coffee," you say, "and I promise I haven't, like, even poisoned it."
They roll their shoulders, pointed, and you hastily add: "- and Hap would be fucking pissed, dude, and you've been up his nook ever since he yanked the scarf, so, like, chillax. C'mon! I've got a proposition. About Mah Jie."
Gwydyn lets you inside, begrudgingly.
It's not a hive worth noting. That's what you're starting to pick up on, after being in space: nowhere's really worth noting, is it? Alternian poor is just standard up here, stripped away from all resources and set adrift among the stars. There's no warps in the metal tiles along the walls, or rust in the ground, but that's about all you can say for it. There's still the same exposed pipes as anywhere else, and the only difference is in the steam clouding the air, heavy enough that it makes sweat bead on the tips of your hair.
They don't look bothered, of course. Fucking waders.
You drop the coffee on the table, but you don't sit down, even as they slide into a chair. The civility of your relationship's apparently gone, lost with your public spat: they just look at you, without so much as offering a drink, and then sniff. "Speak," they order, and any other time you'd balk, but -
- there's sweat already pricking on your skin, and an angry fuchsia across the table. You just want to leave.
"You want to be a good person, obvs," you say in a rush. "You really want to be! You're, like - 'kay, you're keeping your mindfuckers in check, you're trying to help your helms, you're doin' everything you think you're supposed to, and that's great. Like, super great, y'know?" You've spent days and days trying to posture, with no results except a noose resting around your neck. It doesn't hurt to try something else now, and - no matter how awful Pheres is, no matter how pissed you are at Matari - they both had points, just like Hap.
People don't think you can empathize. So fuck 'em all: there's never been a thing you can't do. "And it's great that you're doing it, but, like - y'know what's not so great? Stepping on folks trying to get it. Like, okay, you have a point with, like, your helms. And obvs, I can't just storm in here, and take back Mah Jie, even if I want to. You're right! She's gonna get swiped up by /someone/, if we don't keep an eye on her, if you're right about her sign, and all that shit. I've seen her psi."
"But," you say.
"But?" he asks.
"But that doesn't mean you have to nab her when she's /five/, and start plugging her in. Like, you think you can keep her alive with all that shit you've got pumping into Radiostar. Whatevs. Maybe you can! Maybe you can't. But she hasn't even /molted/ yet. She agreed, 'cause she doesn't know what she's agreeing /to/. That - that's not great. At all. You could do that.. or you could just wait until she's eight. Your helms have been, like, asleep for a gazillion, now. Two millenia, at least. What's four more sweeps gonna do? And when she's actually nine, then she can go, and be your shitty partial helm, and she can keep Radiostar company, and you'll just have one girl to worry about, not two dozen. And -"
You take a breath. "She won't resent it," you lie. "She won't be trying to spend every night figuring out a way to slide a knife into you 'n Radiostar's throat, just like I did, 'cause you went and convinced her to ditch everyone she fucking knows to go live in goddamn space. At /five/. Like, is it really being kind, dude, if you're helping out your helms - who might be, like, actual fax braindead, we don't know - but you're fucking her over? 'cause that's what you'll be doing, if you try helming her at /five/."
"And you think it'll be such a big difference," they say, "if I take her at nine."
Fish are hard to read. Even thinking of them as Liyiji doesn't help, much, in the long-run: Liyiji doesn't have fins, or two sets of eyelids. Liyiji has skin that crinkles when he thinks, in fine lines across his forehead, or by catching in the bridge of his nose. Gwydyn's skin is smooth, and they've got more fins than hair, and when they blink, their eyes stay staring at you neatly all the while. Their face is implacable. You really, really, really, fucking hate fish.
You hate fish, but you love trolls. You know how to read trolls - and a seadweller is still a troll, at the core.
"Absolutely," you say, and when they sigh, leaning back in their chair, you know you've got them.
It took you three fucking hours to find Gwydyn's set of rooms on this station, mostly because you'd refused to ask Radiostar. You'd completed the final shiprun with them burning holes into your back the entire fucking time, and you're not keen to test how far their patience goes: you already pushed it once with their sproglet, and apparently, jostling with their boss was just shoving it all the further. Jostling with their boss, and ripping out his throat, and..
Well. Maybe their ire's a little fucking deserved, at this point in time. So you hadn't asked them, and you'd just relied on your instincts instead. They were a fuchsia. There were only so many places damp enough for them to live, and when you found the fountain - such an egregrious fucking waste of water, in space - you'd known you were close. The doors hadn't had any symbols on them, but you'd picked the grandest one you could find, on a hunch.
Sure enough, after you slam your shoulder into it, it opens.
"You didn't say why I should wait," Gwydyn says, leaning against the doorframe. They're in actual fucking pajamas, like they're some sort of decadent that doesn't sleep in slime. But then again, Hap doesn't, either. Maybe it's a wader thing: they're too worried about shit getting in their gills to sleep like normal, civilized trolls. "And coffee, I am afraid, is not enough."
"But it's really great coffee," you say, "and I promise I haven't, like, even poisoned it."
They roll their shoulders, pointed, and you hastily add: "- and Hap would be fucking pissed, dude, and you've been up his nook ever since he yanked the scarf, so, like, chillax. C'mon! I've got a proposition. About Mah Jie."
Gwydyn lets you inside, begrudgingly.
It's not a hive worth noting. That's what you're starting to pick up on, after being in space: nowhere's really worth noting, is it? Alternian poor is just standard up here, stripped away from all resources and set adrift among the stars. There's no warps in the metal tiles along the walls, or rust in the ground, but that's about all you can say for it. There's still the same exposed pipes as anywhere else, and the only difference is in the steam clouding the air, heavy enough that it makes sweat bead on the tips of your hair.
They don't look bothered, of course. Fucking waders.
You drop the coffee on the table, but you don't sit down, even as they slide into a chair. The civility of your relationship's apparently gone, lost with your public spat: they just look at you, without so much as offering a drink, and then sniff. "Speak," they order, and any other time you'd balk, but -
- there's sweat already pricking on your skin, and an angry fuchsia across the table. You just want to leave.
"You want to be a good person, obvs," you say in a rush. "You really want to be! You're, like - 'kay, you're keeping your mindfuckers in check, you're trying to help your helms, you're doin' everything you think you're supposed to, and that's great. Like, super great, y'know?" You've spent days and days trying to posture, with no results except a noose resting around your neck. It doesn't hurt to try something else now, and - no matter how awful Pheres is, no matter how pissed you are at Matari - they both had points, just like Hap.
People don't think you can empathize. So fuck 'em all: there's never been a thing you can't do. "And it's great that you're doing it, but, like - y'know what's not so great? Stepping on folks trying to get it. Like, okay, you have a point with, like, your helms. And obvs, I can't just storm in here, and take back Mah Jie, even if I want to. You're right! She's gonna get swiped up by /someone/, if we don't keep an eye on her, if you're right about her sign, and all that shit. I've seen her psi."
"But," you say.
"But?" he asks.
"But that doesn't mean you have to nab her when she's /five/, and start plugging her in. Like, you think you can keep her alive with all that shit you've got pumping into Radiostar. Whatevs. Maybe you can! Maybe you can't. But she hasn't even /molted/ yet. She agreed, 'cause she doesn't know what she's agreeing /to/. That - that's not great. At all. You could do that.. or you could just wait until she's eight. Your helms have been, like, asleep for a gazillion, now. Two millenia, at least. What's four more sweeps gonna do? And when she's actually nine, then she can go, and be your shitty partial helm, and she can keep Radiostar company, and you'll just have one girl to worry about, not two dozen. And -"
You take a breath. "She won't resent it," you lie. "She won't be trying to spend every night figuring out a way to slide a knife into you 'n Radiostar's throat, just like I did, 'cause you went and convinced her to ditch everyone she fucking knows to go live in goddamn space. At /five/. Like, is it really being kind, dude, if you're helping out your helms - who might be, like, actual fax braindead, we don't know - but you're fucking her over? 'cause that's what you'll be doing, if you try helming her at /five/."
"And you think it'll be such a big difference," they say, "if I take her at nine."
Fish are hard to read. Even thinking of them as Liyiji doesn't help, much, in the long-run: Liyiji doesn't have fins, or two sets of eyelids. Liyiji has skin that crinkles when he thinks, in fine lines across his forehead, or by catching in the bridge of his nose. Gwydyn's skin is smooth, and they've got more fins than hair, and when they blink, their eyes stay staring at you neatly all the while. Their face is implacable. You really, really, really, fucking hate fish.
You hate fish, but you love trolls. You know how to read trolls - and a seadweller is still a troll, at the core.
"Absolutely," you say, and when they sigh, leaning back in their chair, you know you've got them.
