♉ [PROSE | DAY SIX]

[activatingaggro]

SIPARA NZINGA | eight sweeps / 19 years old
HMS GLORY, ORBITING NUWA, DAY SIX OF SEVEN

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.