#but I swear we never heard ‘oh Fatima and whatever the guy is called have an open relationship’ before or since

[paverics]

remember in from when fatima kissed a girl and julie watched like 🤯😳😏 and then she kissed fatima— but they just never mentioned it ever again? what the fuck was that???

[snowwolf1118]

Humans Are Weird: Women’s Edition Part XIV

This update has been a long time coming, guys. My sincerest apologies for the delay. I hope you can forgive me. In the meantime, please enjoy this long, drawn-out post that is painfully slow and agonizing post. I guess I want everyone to suffer with the characters.

Part I >> Part II >> Part III >> Part IV >> Part V >> Part VI >> Part VII >> Part VIII >> Part IX >> Part X >> Part XI >> Part XII >> Part XIII

The escape plan had proceeded so smoothly until now. Balogh and her team freed a few dozen other prisoners along the way to the hangar and took down a few more Pollikons. Her group was feeling good. They had momentum. Things were looking up. And, as Balogh and the others got closer to the hangar, they kept in communication with Murakami’s, Vallion’s, and Jay’va’s groups for their escape. They were to search for the Frek’jon’s escape pods once they arrived in the hangar and to locate a habitable planet where they would lay low until they could contact the A.F. and go home.

After that, Balogh was not sure of what the A.F. would do, but she was sure she would fight for more A.F. vessels to return to this area of the universe. More victims―human, H’hish, and many more races―were likely enslaved and in need of emancipation.

Or we can just start some sort of rebellion like late twentieth and early twenty-first century movies did. Whichever comes first.

Balogh honestly believed things would change. Unfortunately, life never goes as planned.

Why? Because right now, she was splayed out on the ground, unable to move, nearly lifeless.

Balogh struggled to breathe, every single one of her muscles burned like she ran a 3K marathon in a New Harlem Province winter. Black spots danced in her vision; she could barely see. And of what she could still see? Mayhem. H’hish hunched over humans, desperately calling out their names, performing CPR. Riel’on, Kiel’ish, Jaja’ion, someone, was performing chest compressions on her. Everything she saw was a blur. Everything she heard was white noise. Everything she thought was a jumbled mess. For the first time in her life, Balogh thought for sure this moment was her death. Her frustrations and regrets; satisfactions and joys; her family and friends; all of them came to mind.

I. WON’T. DIE. I. WON’T. DIE. I WON’T DIE. I WON’T DIE. She chanted the words as she struggled for another breath, the last of her vision fading.

I can’t die...

Can’t die...

Won’t die.

No.

No...

.

.

.

“BALOGH!”

Vallion knelt over Fatima, helpless as she and the other humans collapsed one by one, going into various levels of muscle spasms and unconsciousness. CPR was attempted on the humans, but Vallion decided the chest compressions made the situation worse. Why does it feel like my chest is the one being compressed? Fatima is the one dying right in front of me. Fatima, Romano, Freshwater, Wong... All of them are the ones dying, so why do I feel this pain in my chest? What’s going on? Why can’t I stop this? How can I be so selfish? I need to fix this. Save them.

I am their superior. I need to lead them.

Vallion gripped their head, focusing their thoughts into actions. Think. Think. Think. You can’t let her die. You and her just reunited.

No.

Wait.

You can’t let anyone die. They are all your responsibility. You are their protector. Their leader. Their friend. Think, Vallion. Think.

As Vallion wracked their brain, a thought suddenly occurred to them. The humans were having difficulty breathing...but the H’hish were not. “Jon’kon, check the oxygen-carbon dioxide ratio of the air. Now.”

Startled, Jon’kon fumbled with her stolen Port Dev before she went to work checking the air composition of the ship. A heartbeat stretched into several when Jon’kon released a startled “Ah-ha!” and gave Vallion a knowing look. Soon, Jon’kon was hacking into the Frek’jon’s ventilation system and they all could hear the results of her efforts.

However, Vallion knew damage must have surely been done on all the humans and simply escaping from the Frek’jon was no longer a viable option. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Vallion looked at Jon’kon once again. “Patch me through to Murakami, Balogh, and Jay’va’s groups. We have a change of plans.”

Jay’va checked Thompson’s pulse and growled in frustration. Gone. First Pérez, then Ivanenko, and now Thompson. The other humans were down and out, suffering from whatever took Thompson and the others, but the H’hish were perfectly fine. Physically that is. A little winded, but physically fine.

Mentally...

Mentally, we’re fucked. We’re falling apart at the seams, as the human idiom goes. I’m not even over Cyborg’s death, and now I’m losing my whole team. Jay’va felt the energy of the universe crashing down on her and sweeping her along in a tidal wave.

Jay’va buried her head in her hands, feeling the hopelessness and grief pile up on right after the other because she was just that fucking lucky of a H’hish—

“ —va...”

And not to mention, she also had to deal with that thing that happened back in her cell. From that odd smell. Her head was a mess afterwards and now her memories would forever be scarred by these events—

“—COLONEL JAY’VA!”

Startled, Jay’va whipped her head around, searching for the H’hish shouting her name. “WHAT?! What could you possibly want?!” she snapped.

Gigi’ish did not flinch at her harsh words. He just held out the stolen Port Dev for her and said one name: “Vallion.”

Yeu’ish was helping Fuku’kon tend to Lt. Gen. Murakami when a Comm came in from Maj. Gen. Vallion. The escape plan was changing. Seize control of the ship. Kill all the guards. Kill anyone who stood in their way.

Then.

Then.

Then they would put the humans into the infirmary. Heal them while making their escape back to the A.F. Made sense, for the still living humans, but Yeu’ish knew as Murakami’s pulse ceased, the dead had little chance of revival. But who knows? she thought, humans always prove to be more resilient than they seem.

Krellion leaned against the central control console, watching as the ship’s security droids and feeds went down; listening as communications between guards decreased. The humans and dulgo arrogantly thought they would escape. Their little jailbreak could not succeed.

“The filth moved exactly as you predicted, Captain,” said Krellion as he pushed himself off the console. “However, I am hesitant about the extent of the neurological damages this experiment of yours could cause to the cargo.” As he spoke, Krellion pulled up the vital charts of the human cargo, assessing the current oxygen saturation levels.

Zeelot did not spare Krellion a glance as they pulled the charts towards their position. “These dulgo are as weak as the humans with whom they cohabitate. Once enough of the humans become ill, the dulgo will panic and be at our mercy. The fondness they carry for the humans will lead to their surrender.” Zeelot was correct. Already, more of the humans began showing symptoms of oxygen oversaturation and the duglo were becoming increasingly concerned for their human companions’ welfare.

Still, waiting was tedious and Krellion had no interest in toying with the cargo as Zeelot did. “As you say. Oh, these humans will do well as servants of kulgo. They are exhibiting better resistance to oxygen toxicity than the other humans,” he noted.

“Add that to their profiles,” Zeelot ordered before seating themselves down to watch the carnage.

Carnage of all Krellion’s hard work. His hard work in fixing all the neurological and physiological issues with which the humans were prone, yet Zeelot wanted to test Murakami’s loyalty and the abilities of her crew.

But my opinion does not matter. All that matters if my work wasted for a needless experiment or two. Aaaannnnd I must revive Snell again.

But whatever, Krellion truly had no say in the matter, so he just stood and watched as the cargo neared the hangar and the humans began collapsing. A few humans even fell into seizures. Krellion spoke in hushed tones to his fellow kulgo as they all became increasingly worried about the health of their cargo. The amount of overtime they all had to put forth into fixing the damages Zeelot’s experiment was causing became a headache, especially when they were due to arrive at the Market any gulkib from now. If I have to revive a single human or dulgo, I swear by the mighty reign of Ghayz Tadmir’lis, I will leave this vessel and take my team with me...

As Krellion fumed, the overhead lights dimmed and a odd chill ran down his back. He glanced at the other kulgo and they appeared as confused as he did.

However, the confusion was over within a heartbeat because within that heartbeat, the emergency lights began to flash and the alarms blared. Warnings flashed on the ship’s control console about oxygen levels increasing in the room. For Krellion, he only needed less than a qulib to understand the events that were transpiring.

The dulgo figured out the cause of the humans’ collapsing, but they were foolish to think they could kill a kulgo so easily. H’hish had higher oxygen tolerance than any humans, and kulgo as fine as Krellion and his team more so. Even the Pollikon had high oxygen tolerance. And whatever creature Captain Zeelot was, they would not fall to such a lowly and pitiful revenge tactic. Already, the room was filled with twice the oxygen levels needed for a kulgo to comfortably breathe in air and already Krellion’s team worked on combating the increased oxygen levels. “These dulgo are simpletons,” one of his team said with a laugh. Another kulgo added, “They are as clever as the humans.” Krellion could only agree with his team. The dulgo were as slow witted and unimpressive as the humans.

So that brought to question why Captain Zeelot remained so calm, and why they had such a smug look on their face. Just as Krellion opened their mouth to ask, Zeelot spoke first. “I will be returning to my quarters. And do not disturb me.” Their warning carried an additional meaning, one of which Krellion did not wish to invoke.

Swallowing his trepidation, Krellion refocused on the monitors, tracking the remaining guards and the locations of all the escaped cargo, but they were gone. The Pollikons, the ones he could see on the vids, deceased. Brutally so. The humans, remained were he last saw them, but he could see most of their life signs were gone. He and his team had their work cut out for them to revive all the worthless filth. The dulgo and other cargo were nowhere to be seen, as could be said for the escape pods. None of them showed up on the life signs monitor. They were out of range of the transmission. They jumped ship.

Murakami talked big about the loyalty of her crew, but the dulgo escaped the first chance they got. Pathetic. Dulgo are as cowardly and weak as those humans.

Krellion was so lost in his superiority that he never heard the knocking.

Only the sound of the room engulfing in flames.

After that, he only felt the searing pain of his death.

[waldos-writing]

The World Hungers For Bones: Chapter 9

Cooking Lessons -October 12th, 2012-

She was late.

By the time Genevieve figured out where she was and where she needed to be, the bakery had closed and all the lights were off. She just about leapt out of the taxi, calling out to the driver with a little luck, a little wish, and hoped that would pay enough. She made him forget her face and the destination, even though there was probably going to be repercussions later when he noticed his fare didn’t pay. That was for another time and another person.

“Oh please, please please please.”

Genevieve ran up to the dark windows and peered through, looking in on a dark, cloudy ghost world with empty tables and upturned chairs. A sliver of orange light streaked down the back wall, a little promise of something somewhere being alive and awake, but other than that, nothing.

“No, come on. Please.”

She was just about to knock on the door when it shot back from her hand, leaving an empty, dark nothingness. Genevieve almost fell into the bakery while her stomach dropped out from under her and smashed into putty on the pavement below.

“Guuuuh.” Genevieve swallowed before she tried again. “Hello?”

Nothing.

So then she went in.

As soon as she was inside the door clapped shut and the lights came on, illuminating everything, the room, granules of dust in the corners, the milky globs floating on her eyeballs; everything. Once again, she felt her innards go to mush and her legs go weak from the surprise. She hated it. She hated that instant reaction and mustered herself up into something when a woman appeared behind the counter and stared down at her like God himself, before she said, “You’re late.”

“Jesus!” And then again, with more feeling, “Jesus! I mean, what the fuck? Was that—”

“If this is to continue, I ask that you let me know that you’ll be late. It is rude and I am very busy.”

When the adrenaline tapered off, Genevieve finally saw Fatima behind the counter, leaning haphazardly on her elbow, her chin resting daintily on her knuckles as she smiled a rare, almost nonexistent smile.

“Well, sor-ree. Didn’t know there was going to be a tardy strike.”

“Just this once,” said Fatima, wagging her finger.

Fatima pushed herself up and came out from behind the counter. She had taken off her black apron and was in comfortable jeans, tattered at the knees, with flip flops and a loose, if low-cut shirt. Everything was much more relaxed, much more informal, and Genevieve saw it as a trap.

“You saying there’s going to be more?” asked Genevieve.

“Depends. First, an interview. Come with me and we will figure out how you fit into this, little Talker.”

It was like she was bewitched, truly. Genevieve followed Fatima back through the bakery, past the counter, and through a large spotless kitchen. It was beautiful, filled with big shiny rolling racks and deep fryers and ovens and clean counters and shelves full of flours, sugars, spices, freezers, refrigerators, hanging racks, towel stacks, utensils, mixing bowls, spatulas in every size and shape, whisks, stand mixers, hand mixers, marble slabs and all. It smelled warm and buttery, a little dry from the flour, a little yellow from the grease, and a little bitter from the chemicals that were drying from washing the floors.

“You hungry?” Fatima asked as she pushed on through to another set of doors, which swung into a dark room.

“Always,” Genevieve answered, but didn’t think Fatima actually heard her. Instead, she pushed on through and stepped into the new room, rubbing her eyes as they adjusted to the low candlelight.

“What do you know, little Talker?”

“Know?”

The room was small, almost cramped, with a long couch that matched the oval bend of the far wall. There were three tables, two on the left and right sides of the room, and the last directly in front of them. Candles littered every available service Genevieve could see. They were on the tables, dripping long warbled trails like pearls. They were on the selves, building ocean-churned walls of wax. And a few stood on the floor. They were the biggest, and their lights flickered dramatically from the backdraft coming in through the kitchen.

“I don’t even know what you mean when you call me a Talker,” Genevieve said at last. She was slowly making her way to the main table, the podium that took up the center of the room. There was a book there, a bronze bowl, a cheap butter knife, and a feather. She thought she saw some bones trapped in the candle wax, too, like the skeletal remains of a tiny mammoth caught in a snowy tar pit.

“You’re a Talker, girl, a witch. You don’t know anything?”

“I’ve heard about, like, Trent Hunter, that guy from Hunter and the Hunted. I don’t follow that stuff, I swear.”

“You should,” said Fatima, and she blew out one of the candles, snaking her fingers through the long tendrils of smoke. “It is your history. Your life. A Talker is a witch you speaks her spells, who uses her magic in her words. You think of it as a push, but it is so much more than that.”

“That thing with…with my voice?” Genevieve asked and touched her throat. “Uh. I mean. Noooooooo.”

“Yes,” said Fatima and blew out another candle, then another. “It separates us from the mundanes.” Genevieve tweaked her head to the left, giving a confused, puppy-dog face. Fatima watched her over the candles, blowing them out one by one, down the line. “Mundanes are…well, I won’t degrade it with a Harry Potter reference, but, if you like, mundane—”

“Uh, what?” Genevieve shot back, her feet planted firm and her fists on her hips. “Degrade? Harry Potter is better than anything and anyone. Harry Potter…you know, I tried one of those spells. We all did. That’s so rude, if you think…. I—Wingardium Leviosa, right? I made something float. I swear on my life, hon, it’s the truth. I—”

Fatima spun on her, arms raised like a scarecrow pinned to a wooden stand, as she growled out a low, breathy sound, reverberating around the small room. The candles shook and soon every single one had been doused, plunging them into darkness. The kitchen door swung back and forth, giving them a ribbon of orange light, as Fatima continued, rattling out hrrrrragadarrrhaaaagradaaaaah. Her voice started to overlap, one atop the other, layering it into a low, droll sound, pushing into Genevieve’s skin, her organs, the hollow parts of her bones, hrrraagadaaarhraagadaaarhaaaa and soon, ever so slightly, the candles broke off from their wax roots. They twirled up, gently floating, dancing around the room. Genevieve felt herself become lighter, her toes floundering to grip the floor as she wheeled up, leaving gravity behind. Hrrragraddarrrghhaaadaaa. But more than that. Longer than that, deeper than that. Out in the kitchen, utensils lifted from the counters. The earth vibrated, as if it wanted to be liberated as well and joint everything else in the air, to float freely, effortlessly, enthralled by the haunting melody.

And then Fatima stopped. Just like that. Everything dropped. Genevieve didn’t have time to twist and she went down too. The utensils clattered, the candles fell with soft waxy thumps, the earth continued to be solid under them. That was it.

Fatima blew down on the handle in her hand, spitting a little flame onto the wick. She then went around the room, lighting the candles again, taking her time as Genevieve found her feet. She didn’t say anything, so Genevieve did it for her. She shot up and yelled, “Howdidyoudothatwhencanyouteach meohmygodInevereven—”

“That is Talking,” said Fatima, quiet, gently kneeling in front of the tables. When she was done, she sat down on the couch, one leg over her other knee, her arms sprawled out over the top. Again, scarecrow. “It is a disservice that no one has taught you anything. You do not know the history. Witches do not have bloodlines, you see, so it does not come from mother to daughter, or father to son, or any other such combination. We have the Tellings to thank for that. Richard, the oldest, and the father of Readers. Those who interpret dreams, who spell with their mind. And then there was Abigail, our patroness, the first Talker. Finally, of course, was Margot Telling, the Writer, the last of the Tellings and the one who Wrote out every witch bloodline and put the seven by seven curse on our heads.”

“Margot?” Genevieve instinctively reached for her backpack, feeling the familiar cold lump of metal safely tucked away in there. Margot Telling. The owl was an amazing machine, a gift. She had appeared the morning Lucas Gable had died. Genevieve never thought that the owl was something that belonged to a witch.

“Margot was the last, you see. She outlived Abigail, she survived the raid that killed Richard. She was mean and hard. She Wrote as her last Will and Testament, ‘every seven years, seven sets of seven witches are born, and every seven years, seven sets of seven witches die.’ It’s how we come about. You and I.

“What the others don’t tell you, though, is that the seven by seven curse was the only way to repopulate the world. The Tellings were barren, you see, and they put their spirits into the cycle, spread it out so that seven years, we get more and seven years, we lose some. A balance, you see. Nobody can claim blood as their strength; it’s just a lottery. And, look at that, you won.”

“I didn’t,” said Genevieve as she took a step back. The swinging doors weren’t going to stop her, nor the maze of the kitchen, but she didn’t think she could get out of the bakery before Fatima Baruti did whatever voodoo she knew. Her heart was beating like mad. It probably sounded like drums, guilty and all that. “I don’t. I didn’t’ ask for this, okay. I don’t know anything.”

“I know,” said Fatima with her soft smile, her hard face. “Where are you staying?”

“Staying, I don’t even know what the fu—”

“No home. No teacher. I have a spare room upstairs. It’s not much, but I’ll let you have it if you agree to come work for me. Not every day. I’ll give you Wednesdays and Sundays off. It will be hard, little Talker. You come in at four am, you bake with me and with Hwan, but if you do this, I will teach you. I will give you every spell I know. I will show you every witch that comes into my shop. Do this, and I will spare nothing.”

Genevieve stood still, unaware that she was breathing hard as she counted all the candles around the room. Not for any reason other than she needed a second to think. Was it real? Was she hallucinating? Was she out of her goddamn mind? Was she a witch?

Maybe.

“You’ll teach me about Margot Telling, too?”

“If you want. But Margot was a Writer and I don’t work much with them. Franky Frond, he might answer for you. But you have to agree to work with me.”

If she could learn what Margot was, along with everything else, that seemed worth it. Genevieve nodded, even smiled, as she walked over with her hand extended. “Look, I don’t even know what four am looks like, that’s insane. But I’ll do it.”

Fatima looked down on Genevieve’s hand, inspecting the lines, before she spat into her palm and shook on it.

Previous - Chapter 8: Nobody Writes a Letter Next - Chapter 10: I Never Drink (coming soon)