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activatingaggro · 3 years ago

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four discussions

LOXIAS FEFEFE

7.38 sweeps / 16 years old

outer dimasqa, hanhai district

“You’re going to die if you do this,” you tell him, and Rmeros sits up.

“Have the odds changed?”

He needs to shave his hair down again. His curls sit in limp strands around his face, the weight of the length already pulling them into disheartened esses. It doesn’t suit the roundness of his cheeks: on other trolls, it’d make them look young, but when he looks at you, eyes still half-clouded with sleep, it just makes him look tired.

“No,” you admit. It’s a fifty five percent chance of success. Sometimes you bleed, and you see Rmeros drowning, with water filling his lungs, or blood clouding his mouth. Sometimes you bleed, and he’s curled against you, younger, brighter, safe for another few sweeps. The face changes. The troll doesn’t.

“Then I’ll die if I don’t,” he says now, reaching out to place a hand on your knee. He’s got big hands, with knuckles that protrude. Right now, they’re dark. In two sweeps, they’ll be pale, and small, with knobby knuckles laid bare by the tides of the sea. You can see it now, when your eyes unfocus.

Looking into the future is like staring into the sun. No matter how hard you blink, the after-images stay with you.

Your matesprit clears his throat. When you look up, his eyes are sunken in and empty, dark as the hair framing his face. But then you blink, and they’re just white, and soft with an affection he rarely shows.

“Death comes to us all.” He thinks he’s so practical. He sounds so practical, like he’s the one that sees lives overlaid like the cells of a picture splayed. Like he’s the one that’s seen all the ways that he could die, and has been working for the “Unless we stop it. Isn’t that our duty, Loxias, to fight against it?” He reaches up, dragging a thumb across your cheek. “As trolls?”

“Isn’t it your duty,” you ask him, waspish, “to stay alive for me?”

“I’m trying.” He pulls you over, folding you against him. You let him. “Fifty five percent chance,” he murmurs. “All I can do is fucking try.”

+++

RICCIN KAYATA

4.15 sweeps / 9 years old

dockside, temasek, hanhai district

“Raphae,” you say, staring at the portrait, “why you so weird, lah?”

“Standard, Riccin! Before the Zelatrix hears, and washes your mouth out with soap.”

It’s not often you hang out in Raphae’s hive. Ico’s your auspistice, sure, and Sipara’s your kismesis, and they all live together - but he’s just weird, that’s the thing. So’s Ico! You and Sipa figure that’s why they got together, ages and ages back, or at least, that’s what you figure. Sipa doesn’t like to speculate on anything interesting, even though you’re his auspistices, and it’s your job.

Sipa’s just the worst, that’s all. That’s why you hate her.

But Raphae’s a different kind of weird than Ico. Ico’s got meowbeast ears sometimes, like he’s still seven, and he wears so much red, he looks like somebody trying to cosplay. It’s, like, his aesthetic! It’s weird, but it makes sense, sort of, when all the other dancers are covered in glitter and paint. They’re all brawling to stand out, make themselves too garish for the Messiah’s to ever pay them much mind, so somebody else can burn under their gaze. Everyone’s gonna go to the miracle planet eventually, but ain’t no reason it’s gotta be right now.

Raphae.. there’s no reason for his shit, you think. He’s got hair just as long as yours, almost, that he keeps in a sort of bun that’s always got fly-aways, like he’s too cheap for butter, but he ain’t. He wears jackets with patches on the elbows, like he can’t afford nothing better, but you’ve been out shopping with him: he puts the patches on when there’s not even a hole to cover up, just like he wants to pretend.

And his shoes have scuffs, the sort that always get the Zelatrix tugging your ears over keeping your shit nice.

It’s not an aesthetic, you think, ‘cause those have reasons. It’s just strange, like the cholerbear in the bathroom. You’d tapped its head once to get soap, but you hadn’t thought..

“Raphaeee,” you whine, in proper talk this time: “- why are you so weird? Your bear’s puking on me!”

There’s a perfunctory knock on the door. Then he pokes his head into the bathroom. “Well, yeah,” he says, amused. “You tapped its head. It’s got to have soap come out somewhere.”

“Sipara’s bathroom’s gotta spout.”

“Sipara’s bathroom has a Tweetie Pie tweetbeast from the depot with a spout in its head, kid.” He sighs heavily, letting his shoulders roll in. Then he places a hand over his eyes. “We,” he says, with great pain, like even the thought of it’s a chain around his neck, “do not talk about Sipara’s bathroom.”

When he peeks at you through his fingers, after, you laugh. Then he grins at you, bright as the moonlight, pleased as punch. Raphae’s always easy to please, when you ain’t breakin’ his shit, or wearing his clothes. You don’t know why Ico’s always having such fucking problems.

“Besides!” Raphae just wants folks to like him, and listen, even when he’s being queer. “You should like it. Cholerbears are sacred to clowns, in some areas. They teach them to balance balls on their nose as a prayer to the Messiahs. And they feed them glitter milk, so they can read fortunes in the way that the glitter falls afterwards. You could even say this little thing -” He steps in, plucking up the soap dispenser: “- this little thing is practically sacred.”

You squint at him. But Raphae’s got a poker face to beat even Sunyah’s, and he doesn’t so much as crack. “You’re lying,” you accuse him, but it’s hesitant. He doesn’t like religion, but he does know an awful lot.

And he doesn’t give in. He just grins at you, all teeth. “What is the Zelatrix even teaching you?” he asks with a click of his tongue. “Don’t worry, kid. Lying is a sin.”

+++

CALICO KUANFU

11 sweeps / 24 years old

rickshaw ii-j, deep sea, alternia

“Don’t you ever get tired of hearing thoughts?” you ask Ognais, climbing out of the water. The sea’s colder than it usually is tonight, even with the sun cresting on the horizon, and the material of your wetsuit is to keep the moisture out, not the chill. It permeates the fabric, leaving goosebumps pricked across your skin. If you stand here long enough, it’ll sink through your hide and into your bones. You don’t have blubber, the way that a seadweller does. You’re only navy.

Even Ognais is true indigo, built broader and taller than you’ve ever a hope of reaching, and she doesn’t have blubber. It comes with the gene package that includes gills, if you remember your schoolfeeds right. The same proteins that deactivate the Johnston organ are the ones that simulate the growth of proper blubber to insulate the bones, deep and buoyant enough to make the weight on you look like tissue paper. Even skinny seadwellers have it. You slept with a violet, once, that was so thin you could count her bones, and even then, her skin hadn’t folded the way land-dwellers did. There were no wrinkles. It just dimpled, and it shifted, but it was too thick to really bend -

“Just dents. Calm, brother,” Ognais says, laying her heavy palm on your face. A callous catches on your cheek. As soon as the thought hits, she’s already shifting, smoothing her thumb across it as an apology. "Nah. Shit comes natural. Why care?"

“Lots of reasons -” The air’s too much. Your lungs seize when you breathe in, hard enough that you’re coughing before you realise it. Ognais is already wrapping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you in close. She’s colder than you, usually, technically. Right now, she’s warm as an ox, and the heat of her feels like it’s cutting right through. “Lots of reasons,” you say again, but your throat’s too dry to keep going. You shouldn’t have --

“Nah,” she agrees, steering you up the path, away from the docks. “Should’ve gone come morning. But, eh. Already swam tonight.” The kraken’s get you’d hauled in is still on the metal jut, but it’s fine: with Ognais here, no one’ll bother with you, and already behind you, there’s the cut of knives being unsheathed. “Why care about breathing? Same think as thinking. Ain't no bother -”

“- me, yeah, but I don't have to think about it,” you point out. It's hard to focus on just her! It always is, when you're home. You know you can trust Wintae to do her job, as lead of the scavenger’s dawn shift. But the sound of the knives working through rubber sounds all wrong. She might be using a butchers knife, instead of a granton. It's a minor mistake, but she is young. “I'm not listening to -”

“- everybody around? Bullshit. Always listening to entire Rickshaw.” She's steering you steadily up towards your hive, not slowing enough to so much as let you falter. You should be grateful! Part of you is, even as you're still wavering on going back. “Same as --”

“- you,” you admit. She unlocks your door, sidling you inside, and before you can decide otherwise, she's clicking the lock shut. The hive is sickly warm, after the chill of the sea. You're not sure who's moving your feet, exactly, when you collapse onto a chair. You're not sure you care.

Ognais laughs. “Okay,” you correct yourself, wry, “I don't care. And.. alright! I hear you, I hear you. I just worry, that's all.”

"Brother, you worry so much. Calm your tits,” she advises you, turning towards the fridge, “and think a little less.”

+++

ICONIC CONETL

12 sweeps / 26 years old

inner ghoulisar, terquia, district

The best thing about Vadaya is that he doesn't ask questions; when you drift up behind him, sling your arms around his shoulders, and tell him to take off his shirt, he actually acquises.

The fact you nuzzle your face into his neck is leading to the wrong idea, undoubtedly, but that's your problem for later. He did what you said! That warrants a reward. But your problem right now, however, is --

You don't like ports. You don't like them at all. No level of dislike, though, can hide the fact your curiousity.

His shirt pulls up like a curtain. It's just black on black on black, as far as the eye can see: his skin’s paled some under the seasons dimmed lights, but it's still a match for the biotechnology arching between his shoulderblades, curving up his nape. It's shiny, with skin so smooth that it catches every refraction. It slopes down easily on the edges, flowing into his skin so easily that you can't see the seam.

If you touched it, you could feel it.

Under the carapace, his back is carefully, meticulously straight, in the way he always gets when he's uncomfortable. You've always appreciated the way his back's built. It's a just better view! One that distracts you from the ports, and makes the bile in your throat almost tolerable enough to swallow.

Vadaya doesn't have rejection scars. Vadaya has the sort of technology built for him, made from his own flesh and knitted into it, as neat as any of your projects. The technology isn't so different from the skin, you think. When you place a palm to his spine, they're close enough that you can't even feel what should be the chill of his augmentative device above you.

You hadn’t been bothered by ports, back before you’d gotten them. You hadn't been bothered by a lot of things, before they'd pinned you like a butterfly to the board and done their best to clip your wings.

But this isn’t mechanics and gear, carved into his body and distorting it. His spine isn't a ripple of scar tissue and half-spoiled technology, gears that shift and click and spark if they face enough provocation. No, his ports are something grown into him, as much a part of him as his spine, or his fins, or the half-colour of his eyes.

The Scimitar gear is a part of him. It's not some advancement, or some unwanted scar, the way it is with helms. How could it be? Vadaya isn't one.

It’s just another abnormality, but your kismesis is full of them.

If you touched it, you think, the shell would be smooth. It’d beat with the same pulse you can see bobbing in his throat, the longer that your fingers trace lines into his spine. It’s just a part of him, like anything else.

You could prove it to yourself, you think, if you just reached up and touched it.

It's only when he inhales that you realise your fingers have curled in instead. You don't have claws! Just nails, blunted and dull. So there's no scratches, no marks, for all that you yank your hand back reflexively. It’s just Vadaya, being Vadaya.

When you look at the biotech, the red lights off the ports wink, and you just --

You don’t like ports. You don’t like ports at all, no matter how different, but at least you make yourself look at them, winking, before you tear your gaze away.

Vadaya’s still stiff in front of you, poor thing, confused as an acolyte on their way to Carnival. He doesn’t know what to do with you, when you go and get strange. He never does, does he? So you swat him on the ass, just to give him something to think about.

It doesn't do anything for his nerves, you think, but the way he jolts certainly makes you feel better.

“Relax,” you drawl, like your mouth isn’t as dry as Jejunus’s depths. “I was checking for scars! My goodness gracious, you've sure cleaned up after your molt, hmm? What a shame. You ought to go out, get some new ones. They used to make you look awfully rugged, y’know..”

#writing #iconic conetl #calico kuanfu #raphae irrigo #riccin kayata #ognais tarmac

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activatingaggro · 3 years ago

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you-you-you're just my type (oh, you got a pulse and you are breathing)

CALICO KUANFU

10.15 SWEEPS / 22 YEARS OLD

wasateg station, near-alternia orbit

(11,991 words)

SUMMARY: Calico Kuanfu only planned on going to Wasateg to watch his bootleg Ah! My Moirail, but he hadn't really planned on getting a moirail from it. Serendipidity, right?

CW: Blood, general canon compliant violence.

+++

If you ever tried to count how many times you've been stabbed, you'd run out of blood way before you ran out of digits.

Right now, that wouldn't be hard. You're pretty sure that the awful flesh keg of your body is just about out of blood, anyway.

"Honestly," you rasp out, "it's kind of surprising, really? Like, I would've thought - I mean, like, if you'd ever asked me, personally speaking, I wouldn't have thought I'd need to count! Count stabbings, I mean. Because, like - stabbing! Stabbing is one of those things that just seems like you'd remember? I mean, spiritually. Not physically. We're all bluebloods here, after all, and what's a little stabbing between friends?"

"Not that we're friends." Your ass hits something hard behind you. Oh, right. The counter. This is a place with counter! Everything's been a haze, since the knife first slid into your side. But adrenaline's pushing you through the blue fog, one ragged breath at a time. "I'd never be that presumptuous, obviously! Like, whatever deep, dark, special relationship that we're building here - these real, like, fresh community vibes -"

When you'd walked into the tea house, you hadn't expected anyone to start a fucking fight. All you'd wanted to do was grab a table, get an infinite refilled cup of boba, and settle down with the full OAV of Ah! My Moirail! for the rest of the day. It'd taken you four different shore leaves to hunt down the vids, while your roomie had derided you the entire time for chasing after a fool's errand. Everyone had said the OAV's uncensored disks had been shattered, the shards fed to one mother grub or another, but you'd held out hope. And now that you had your contraband in hand, there was no way in hell you were going to let him watch it with you.

At least, not until you'd seen the whole thing over twice.

You hadn't wanted a fight, but even tucked up in space, you're still a Rickshaw troll. Old habits had died hard. Sure, Quali-Tea had infinite refills on their boba.. but it'd been the only shop on the station with furniture durable enough to survive a navyblood's tantrum. The tables were big, heavy things, bolted tight enough into the floor that even a blueblood couldn't tip them.

And the counters were thick. Thick enough that when the clown lunges forward, and you twist back, the knife doesn't skitter when it hits the wood. It doesn't splinter.

It just sinks right the fuck in.

"- well, maybe we could be friends, after all," you offer up, glib. Mostly glib. Maybe it's a little faint, too, because - you're half on your back on the table, splinters digging in through the thin weave of your uniform. The adrenaline has cut through the fog in your vision, but it's fading, just as quick as it'd come. You're not sure how long it takes to die! You've never been worried enough to wonder.

There's blood pooling under you, though, more and more pushed out with every unsteady pulse of your heart. You've never thought about what it'd feel like to die, either, but right now.. you wouldn't be surprised if it was a little something like this.

At least the clown's not paying you any attention. Nah: all of his focus is on freeing the knife dug into the table. When you manage to roll, the wet squelch makes him look up. But then he kisses his teeth, annoyed, and turns his attention back down. "I think we could totally be friends," you rasp out, letting your words shake just a little. Your mouth tastes like iron, but that's fine. It just gives a little splash of authenticity to this whole thing, as your hand fumbles down, shaky, towards your belt.

In a way, you're lucky. As soon as the clown had pulled out a knife, the rest of the customers had started streaming out of the tea house, jostling and shoving in an attempt to get the fuck away. Even the cashier had taken one look at the two of you, and headed right out into the back of the shop with a sharp click of the door. Nobody likes when the clowns get rowdy! And, sure, you're not a clown, you’re a blueblood? But when it comes to the nobility, that sort of distinction never matters much.

A landdweller is a landdweller, after all. Navies don't pop out with frills and gills, and in a place like Watateg, that kind of distinction is what really matters.

It's never been a concern for you before! Watateg Station is one of the best watering holes for the newly Ascended, close enough to the bases to fly over for shore leave and be back again before the first bell. The prices are cheap, the trolls are easy, and every third resident is some flavour of sparkplug, with glowing eyes and pans as fragile as they are bright. In all the times you've visited, you've always been one of the only bluebloods on the whole rig. People have always ducked their horns and gotten the fuck out of your way. Maybe it's made you a little arrogant.

Or maybe clowns are just the fucking worst, you think, as the clown lets out what you're pretty sure must be a honk of frustration.

The knive’s still in your side, but that's fine. Everything's fine! Sure, there's blue smudged right across the corner of your vision, floating along the inner edges like scum on the water's surface. But you can still see. And if every breath feels like you're sucking in glass, it'salso fine. You're still breathing, and that means you can work with that. You’ve gotten through raids with way more injuries than this.

And so, if when you lift your arm, the skin pulls enough that you think you might just fucking die - who cares? You just have to push through it! Sure, your shirt is so wet, you might as well be at sea again. But if you were at sea, you wouldn’t be paying attention to anything like that. Blood loss doesn’t count until the adrenaline turns off. The only trolls who think otherwise are the ones that get culled.

You’re not going to get culled here! There just wouldn’t be a point to it, not up in space. The clown’s long-limbed and scrawny, with skin so thin that you can see the press of their bones through it. They’ve got hollows in their cheeks, and blood-bright eyes. If they kill you, what’re they going to do with your body? Paint with it?

Mainlanders have always been wasteful, and clowns are the worst of ‘em all.

So you ignore the way that your skin tugs as you reach back. Each movement leaves you blinking back spots, but the clown’s big. You can see them even through the haze, and that’s all that matters, as you take a deep breath, grab your gun and carefully, painfully, take aim.

When the Ascension ships came down to the Rickshaws, after the jade matrons had lined all of you up neatly and nicely with the rest of your caste, the very first thing the drones did was take your guns. The little ones. The big ones! Even the heirlooms like you'd used to own, made out of troll horn and what must've amounted to a whole bucket of ash; they’d plucked it from your hands like it was nothing but a toy, with none of the reverence and awe that your weapons’ had deserved.

The smaller of the two drones had shifted, mandibles flaring, wider than you’d known they could go - wide enough that the keratin cracked, a noise loud enough that Eun-Woo had clapped both of her hands over her ears. The shell had peeled back, layer after layer, like so much glass shattering.

And there hadn’t been blood and wire inside, like you would’ve thought. Instead, it was just heat, strong enough you could feel it from several feet back, and the stinging stench of iron. They’d tossed the lot of your guns into that hole, one after another, as easily as if they were melting plastics. Explosives weren't allowed in space, they'd informed the lot of you over your cauterwailing, because no matter how cold your blood ran, it'd never be cold enough to survive a vacuum break in orbit.

So the little rinky-dink pistol you carry, all things considered, shouldn't be called a gun at all.

It doesn’t fire like one, either. When you pull the trigger, there's no recoil, or flash of light, or even the familiar iron sting of gunpowder igniting. There isn't even the familiar burst of heat you always associate with gunfire, because everything in the Carnaci 48 is meant to dissolve flesh, not steel.

If you weren't watching, you might've wondered if you'd even pulled the trigger. Then there's the familiar hiss and then the splash as the laser slips right through the clowns shoulder -

- and the gun splutters as the hiss dies, quickly as it had come. Something nearby clicks, a sound sharp enough to cut through your fog. Is it the gun? As quickly as it came, it's gone, and the only sound in the room is the sizzle of polyester curling into the red-hot circle of the clown's wound, and the sound of your ragged, wet rasps for air.

"I think we should be great friends," you say, all at once, in a rush. There's iron in your mouth, heady and painful, sharp enough on your tongue that it might as well be spirits. Every breath feels like you're pulling fire down your lungs, painful and bright and almost too much to bear.

You think: you need to get off of the counter. Behind it, maybe?

"I mean, yeah, I just shot you, but you - you stabbed me! You stabbed me first, dude." Your body shrieks as you jostle back. Your ass slides on the wooden surface, as your knees hook on the far edge. The knife keeps moving every time you do, lightning flashes of pain almost impossible to ignore. So you don't. You keep moving, and you keep talking. "But what's a few extra inches of steel between friends, right?"

The clown isn't paying any attention to the knife now. He looks down at his shoulder, his eyes wide enough that you can count the veins in them. Seven ripples of indigo, right through the yellow of his sclera. They're already being crowded out by orange, the warm warning of a blood rage blooming even as you watch. "I'm willing to forgive and forget," you tell him, earnest, wetting your lips. But you'd forgotten the iron in your mouth. "If you're down for it. What d'you say we put this all behind you?"

The clown looks up. He pulls his lips back from his teeth in what could be a snarl. His fangs are white and sharp, and a hysterical part of your brain notes that he must be great at his flossing regimen.

Then he smiles.

"Oh," you say, distressed, "oh, dude, I hate that, stop that?" He's stepping forward. You hadn't managed to get as far back as you planned, but it's fine: with each step, you're sliding back, the pain in your side smothered almost entirely under your sheer panic. The clown is between you and the teahouse's exit. But it's fine, because there's a door behind you.

All you have to do is get to the door behind you.

You swing your legs right over the edge of the counter, pivot, and -

- you fall right into the arms of a troll.

The cashier frowns down at you.

She's holding you like a carcass, fingers spread like she's afraid of a disease, nose wrinkled like she's certain you've got one. You could be offended, you think. She doesn't look old enough to judge you! There's no wrinkles, or gray hairs, or any of the little hints of a highblood's age. And her eyes aren't gray.

Her eyes are indigo, far cooler than the navy you're spilling all over her shirt, and unlike the knife fetishist in the corner, she doesn't have paint on her face at all.

You make a decision in an instance.

"He~llo," you sing, or try. Had rolling been a bad idea? There's a wet sound fucking up your words, dragging on the vowels like something sticky. Right, you'd never taken out the knife. "God, we just met, but - but would you believe that - well, I think I love you?"

The girl wrinkles her nose.

Does she even understand what you're saying? Probably not. No one on the station speaks Seacant, and your translation worm had died, right when the clown had first cuffed you on the ear. But she might! She's got the sort of features that look coastal. Not Hanhai, not with round little ears like hers, but Preuskan, maybe.

Definitely Preuskan, you decide, when she says something that just feels indescribably foreign. It's soft-edged and drawling, much more delicate than anything you'd expect out of a troll with jowls hanging like sacks of flour. It's kind of cute. But more importantly, it's friendly. It doesn't sound threatening, at least, and you can work with that.

Because the clown must have noticed her eyes, the same as you. He's pulled up short, his gaze flicking from you to her and back again. It's amazing. If your breathing wasn't so loud, you think, you might've heard gears clicking in his head.

"I am so sorry that I ruined your tea-shop. Tea-party? Tea festival? Whatever," you say, all in a rush, because - yeah, your words do sound wet, and now that you're being cradled in the not-so-metaphorical bosom of safety, you've got a little more attention to pay towards that. He hadn't struck you high enough for an organ, you'd thought. And it doesn't feel like he's punctured anything.

But would you be able to tell? Right now, you don't think so. Maybe you should've removed the knife. Maybe..

.. you should pay attention to your saviour, because she's looking at the clown, now.

"I am sorry, regardless, like, of whatever this is, or whoever's it is?" you say. "Like, for a lot of reasons! Because the destruction of other people's property is wrong, obviously, but -"

Her grip on your shifts. "But because - because -"

Then she drops you.

You've got just enough time to feel your old friend, the counter, once more under your ass. It's uncomfortable, but it's fine. Right now, it doesn't have a knife, so it's as good a friend as any in the teahouse. Better, really, because the troll is reaching out towards you, her lips pursed, and you're not sure what she's doing, exactly, until her fingers wrap around the handle of the knife.

Then you don't care what she's doing, because someone's screaming. Your lungs had been burning. Now everything is, every possible facet of your attention narrowed down to this one white hot point on your side. You've never died. It's a feat you've always been proud of! But this, you think, is what dying might feel like.

It lasts a minute. Or maybe it lasts seven hundred fucking sweeps, all packed into that minute like a thousand sardines, and you feel every single moment of it ticking away. When your vision clears, your ass isn't on the counter anymore. Now your entire back is. Your side hurts, so much more than you could ever imagine a wound hurting. It's enough that you feel like you're drowning in it, almost, and it's enough that you almost lose track of your new friend.

Almost, because she's got the knife in her hand, and she's looking down at you.

"Oh," you manage, swallowing hard. Your lips taste like blood. It's fine! "Oh, hey -" Why hadn't you ever learned much of Standard? It hadn't seemed important, when you'd had your translation worm. A lot of the Rickshaw trolls learned it, when they ascended, but most of them weren't leaders of their community. You had to set an example that trolls didn't need to submit fully to the filth of the Empire. The Empire owned a trolls' body, but that didn't mean they had to own their minds.

You're almost regretting that moral stance now, but it’ll be fine, you think. "Hey," you try again, but you can't think of what to say next. The troll's head tilts to the side, like she's a seal on the beach. She definitely, absolutely does not understand you.

When the clown speaks, though, a rattle of sounds that sounds like Standard if you’d had your bulge in a motorboat, she looks up immediately.

Maybe this isn’t fine, after all. You sit up all at once. Your side is screaming, and you - well, you’re not screaming, because this isn’t exactly the first stabbing you’ve gone through. Once you’d gotten an entire sword through the gut on a raid, and you hadn’t screamed then. Sure, it was because of the shock, and the jaw that’d turned out to be broken, but the point remained. You’d taken it like a Rickshaw troll was supposed to. So you aren’t screaming.

Whining, though - whining is perfectly acceptable, and you can hear the air whistling through your clenched teeth as you try to force yourself to stay upright. It’s harder than it ought to be, because your coat’s gone and tried to mold itself to the counter. Why was the counter wood? You were never going to a shop with a wooden counter again. You try to tug it off, but -

- oh, wow, the troll can make expressions, because she says something again, then drops her entire hand on you.

It is, as far as things go, a really fucking big hand.

It is striking you, suddenly, that this is a very big troll.

“Please don’t kill me,” you tell her, earnest. You can’t move. She’s already got the knife in her hand. She’s not looking at you again, though. Maybe that’s a good sign? If you die, stabbed to death by a clown and a mainlander, the next Calico is going to change their name to Tabbie. “This actually really fucking hurts a lot, and personally, like, I think, just between the two of us, I’ve been through enough, you know? It’s been a very long night! I didn’t mean to stab anyone! I don’t deserve this!”

“I did mean to stab someone,” you admit, because she’s - saying something, you think? But it’s not to you. Are they planning on parting out your body? “My organs are terrible, by the way. Spots all the way down. Like, all the way down, in every sense of the word, you absolutely deserve better. Unless you’re into that? You’re probably not into that. Anyway, I - I can admit! I probably do deserve this. The broken eye socket, the knife stab to the side, the frankly obscene number of teeth they knocked out..”

Oh. Oh. You hadn’t thought of it, but - right, that was why your mouth was bleeding.

Why your mouth is bleeding, and the rest of you is, too.

“I kind of deserved it all? That wasn’t very smart, and my entire lineage is absolutely ashamed of me. But -” You’re absolutely not going to die here, you think, but that’s not really your choice right now, is it? “Mostly, I just hope you aren’t ashamed of me,” you tell her, and you’re trying for earnest, but mostly, you think, you just sound congested. Maybe she’s into that, though. Because the clown’s talking, but the way she’s holding the knife doesn’t seem like it’s the right angle to stab it into you. “Because I love you, dude. I totally do. Did I say please don’t kill me? Because, like, super please -”

She lifts the knife.

“Please,” you add.

She tosses it right into the clown's face.

Or at least, you assume that’s what happens. There’s a wet pushing kind of sound, like a sharp end of a blade sliding into jello, and then there’s a thump. More importantly, even a full thirty seconds after she loses the knife, no one comes over. She cranes her neck, her mouth a thin slash, but the room’s entirely still, save for her.

And for you.

“Did I say I love you?” you tell her, and she looks down at you.

She’s still frowning. That’s fine! That’s perfectly fine, because you can lay your bloody hand on her cheek. You could’ve, really, but then she looks at your hand, and her lip curls.

You place it on her neck instead.

“Never mind,” you say, earnest, “you know.”

---

You’re not exactly sure when, but at some point, you must’ve passed out.

Because one moment, you’ve got a hand on your saviour’s neck, and the next..

“It’s a nice bed,” you say, conversational, to the lusus staring at you. It’s one of the mainlander types: big, broad, and covered in so much fucking fur, you’re not actually sure what you’re looking at. It’s a primate, maybe, but not a decent one, like your lusus.

It turns its head to the side. With one oversized hand, it delicately plucks a leaf off of the potted plant in front of it, and then resumes chewing slowly, pendulously, its jowls shaking with every bite. It doesn’t react to you. If it wasn’t staring at you with those big black eyes, you wouldn’t be sure if it knew you were in the room at all.

“Like, on a scale of one to ten, it’s pretty much a fantastic bed? Very.. beddy.” The room you’re in isn’t the sort of place you’re used to! For one, the mattress is on the ground, and it’s making the lusus look way bigger than you’re sure it is. For two, there’s cloth on all of the walls, and when you reach to the side, fumbling along the edge of the mattress..

It’s just more cloth. It’s rug, actually, and.. who has rug in their room on a spaceship? “This,” you complain, “this is how you get allergies, dude. You know? It’s just - it’s unhygienic! You’re getting all sorts of fibers in it, all sorts of dust.. man, I bet it’s full of your fur, you know? You probably shed all over this shit, and now it’s packed in, and..”

The room’s a little barren apart from that, though. Oh, there’s a dresser by the door, but it’s the kind of stark white keratin that means it came straight from the manufacturer. There’s no pictures on it. There’s plants, sure, but you’ve never been good at plants. They’re very green.

“Probably not going to be green after you’re done with them,” you tell the lusus, pushing yourself up. Something in your face twinges. Maybe it��s your eye socket, you think, and when you blink ,experimental.. yeh, it definitely is. Had the clown actually gone and broken your face? You’d cull him, if your saviour hadn’t already gone and done it for you.

“Wish there was a mirror in here, y’know?” How long have you been here? Impossible to tell, when there’s not even a clock on the wall. You have one in your pocket, normally, but when you tug the blanket, reaching down towards your hip, your pocket’s empty. Oh, sure, you’re wearing pants, but your belt and harness are both missing.

And so is your shirt, you realise, because as soon as the blanket shifts -

There’s a reason midbloods are the only ones allowed to handle a thermostat.

To say that it hurts to stand is like saying it hurts to drown. The pain’s just sharp enough that you can’t even acknowledge it right: it’s just discomfort, sinking into every corner of your awareness, pushing at the seams like it can wash out everything around it. There’s bile at the back of your throat. There’s iron on your tongue, brittle sweet.

You’ve dealt with worse, you remind yourself. It might feel like you’re going to die, as every rip and tear in your unset body tries to pull open, but it’s fine. You’re a navyblood. All you have to do is push through it. And if something rips..

You’re a navyblood. It’ll knit itself back together.

The wall’s cool under your hand, even through the cloth. The chill is settling, almost soothing. It’s a reminder that you aren’t on planet, where a situation like this might get you killed. Instead, you’re up on Watateg, one of the only places defanged enough that nobody had just gutted you for a bounty when you were down.

One of the only places that an indigo would demean herself to go and help you out. “Super sweet of her to help me out there,” you tell the lusus, who’s shifted to watch you. It’s positioned by the door, but you don’t think it’ll stop you. You can’t read primate faces well, but you’re pretty sure that disinterest looks the same in every species. “Tell her I said thanks, okay? Next time I’m up, I’ll totally buy her a drink, but for now - I think our time here is done.”

“Return to bed,” the lusus tells you.

You scream.

“Stop,” the thing tells you, and it’s absolutely horrible. The lips move slowly, trepeditiously, but the sound coming out of them isn’t - the whoops and squeaks of your guardian, back on the rickshaw. When your lusus makes sounds, it’s like they’re being ripped out of him, inch by bloody inch, deep enough that you can feel it in your bones.

The lusus’s sounds are like it’s popping out, one after another, like a fish with a mouth full of bubbles. The vowels are all wrong. Everything’s all wrong, all the moreso in that it’s very nearly Seacant, because you’ve never heard a troll hit a tone like that. In fact, you’ve never really heard an animal talk in front of you at all?

Well. Not in person! You’ve seen it on the screen, sure. Once, the night before the lot of you had headed off to be assessed by the Empire, Bon-Hwa had downloaded an entire twenty four hours worth of movies. You’d cleared your schedule of raids, and of appointments, and of Min-Jin’s worried prep sessions, and the lot of you had gotten together into your hiveblock with jerky and enough booze that you’d had to go off-rig to buy it.

Then you’d sat, and you’d watched them all. It hadn’t been fun! It hadn’t been about having fun, really: if you’re honest, it was mostly just about figuring out a way to numb yourself to the traumas of Ascension, so when the moons rose again, you wouldn’t have the energy for fear.. and if you did, well, you wouldn’t remember it later. You sure don’t.

All that you really remember is one of the films, right as the first third ended, where you all found out that someone had taken the “Monkey” of “The Monkey King” entirely too literal. You’d scrambled for the remote, but Min-Jin’s demands had won out. The movie had stayed on.

The giant ape had talked there, sure. But now that you’re remembering it, the primate had done a lot of things, honestly, and..

“I have worked for the past half-sweep really, really fucking hard,” you tell the lusus, voice reedy, “to absolutely and totally repress that entire film, and you know what? I would like to go back to that right now, thanks. I think it’s just - very selfish, and inconsiderate of you to even make me remember anything about that film, honestly, so if you could just leave, that would be great. It’s not really you! I mean, it is? But it’s not you you, it’s just that your entire species is a freaky abomination, so, like, if you think about it, it’s not personal.”

Carefully, meticulously, the lusus reaches out and plucks another leaf from the potted plant.

“Or maybe it is personal, because, like, dude - what the fuck?” If you had your gun, you think, forlorn, you could shoot it. Would it probably do anything, other than get you ripped apart? Probably not! But it might make you feel better as you drag yourself all the way to your feet. Everything hurts. Bluebloods heal quick, but not really in a night kind of quick, as it turns out. “Why are you even here? Like, I don’t know you, you don’t know me, I’d like to go ahead and go -”

When you take a step forward, it shifts and turns those big black eyes on you. “Stop,” it tells you again, still popping off each sound like it has a mouth full of fish eggs. “Return to bed.”

Scratch that: shooting it would absolutely make you feel better.

You’ve got on pants, sure, but you don’t have a gun here: your belt’s empty, and even your tail and harness are missing. Could you fight this lusus, one on one? Sure, probably. It’s pretty big, but it’s not that big, you think. You’ve fought lusii before. All you have to do is straighten up, roll back your shoulders. Suck in your stomach! Push on your stomach, maybe, if it doesn’t want to suck in all the way, and -

Your hands come back damp.

There’s navy blue dripping from your fingers, fresh enough still that it hasn’t even gone tacky. “Oh,” you say, a little breathy. “Okay, shit, maybe I’m not going to fight you -”

The lusus starts whooping, and you make a quick decision.

You’ve got a solid corner of the far wall’s panel peeling back by the time the door snatches open.

It’s the same troll as before. The same indigo girl, with just about the same exasperated expression as she turns those stark purple eyes from you, to her lusus, to back to you. With a deep inhale, she says something to her lusus. There’s the same bubble-pop sound of words as it says something back.

Then she steps forward, out of the doorway, and her lusus stands up.

You’d thought he was big before. You hadn’t realised, exactly, how scrunched up he was in his post by the doorway. He unfolds like some vast, great, matted rug, or one of the older deep sea rickshaw’s regalia, brought over from the mainland and long-harried over time. Every time you think he’s revealed every inch of skin, he shifts, and another two feet seems to appear. He’s easily a head over his ward.

No, you realise, sinking: he’s two heads over her. Or is it three?

Luckily, you don’t need to find out. There comes a point that his oversized skull is brushing the ceiling, and he’s straightened himself up as much as he needs to. He pulls himself past his girl, each move delicate as a water-spider, and once he’s out..

“I know that a troll is basically an extension of their lusus, in some areas? Like, spiritually,” you tell her, earnest, as she steps forward. “But I have to say, out of the two of you, you are way better than your lusus. Like, physically, obviously? That’s not hard. Nobody likes a primate. I mean, I have a primate lusus, and he’s pretty great, but no one would ever compare us. I mean, we have the same markings, but his hands -”

You hadn’t realised you were still holding the curved steel of the panel until she reaches up, and carefully takes your hand in hers.

“His hands are way longer,” you inform her, puzzled, as she turns yours over. You’re injured. You really shouldn’t let her into your space like this! But if she’d wanted to kill you, she would’ve had more than enough opportunities by now. And besides, you’d said you loved her, you’re pretty sure.

How could someone cull someone that had given them such a passionate, overwrought profession of love? It’d just be fucked up.

As fucked up as the way she’s peering at your skin, nose wrinkled. She says something, but it isn’t to you, you’re pretty sure! Her lusus, at least, had spoken Seacant, for all that it sounded like it’d ground it up first and was spitting it out one piece at a time. Whatever she’s speaking.. well, you can tell it’s a language, at least? Some of the words almost sound like words that a troll could use to communicate.

But it’s not Standard, which you can understand to some extent. The basics, at least - enough that you’ve never gotten spaced when your worm blew out, even if people were really, really tempted. It’s not one of the island tongues, either. Seacant’s got a cousin in the coastal islands that’s stolen just enough from the Rickshaws that it can.. not quite allow communication, but it can do something, at least. You can tell they’re speaking!

Points to her: you can tell she’s speaking, too, even if it is gibberish.

“But it’s very eloquent gibberish,” you tell her, because she’s stopped talking and she’s looking at you now, expectant. It’s obviously your turn to respond! It’s just a shame she can’t actually speak proper Troll, but you’ve always tried to be a gracious guest. You’re not going to snub her over that. “I mean, like - are you looking at my hands? They’re pretty great hands, dude, but if you have some kind of a weird hand fetish, I have to say, that’s not really a thing I can support, morally speaking -”

She taps you on one of your finger stubs.

Because, oh, right, you realise: maybe she wasn’t looking at your hands after all! You hadn’t noticed your prosthetics were gone, but when you look down.. those sure are some stubs on display. You’d lost the first finger and your middle during a particularly ill-advised raid, back when you were young enough to think metal gauntlets would protect you more than leather. It had been a sound theory! But you hadn’t known much about psionics at that point, and no one on the Rickshaw had enough experience to warn you away.

It’d worked out in the end. You’d taken your prosthetics from the horns of the troll that had killed you, and it’d become a funny kind of joke, really, over the next few sweeps. Whenever you showed them off, you had a story! Folks loved stories.

“They must’ve come off in the shop,” you say, mystified, tilting your hand to the side. You don’t really look at them that much on average! You’ve certainly never paid them much mind when your prosthetics weren’t on. There’s callouses that you hadn’t noticed, nestled neatly between your fingers, marks of where your gear usually sits. The skin’s a little scarred on the knuckles. They are, as far as hands go, pretty average. “Wild. I guess I’ll have to make new ones - hey!”

Her palm is bigger than yours. She’s bigger, in every sense of the word. Navies grow tall, the saying went, tall enough to reach the heavens. Indigoes grew wide, wide enough to block out the sky and everything in it. Almost all trolls were destined to go to space, but the royalty had always been the exception. They were as solid as the planet, because they were made like it - they were made for it, really, because hadn’t the first trolls to leave the caverns been gilled?

Your saviour doesn’t have gills. Her cheeks are smooth, and her ears are round. There’s nothing interrupting the soft plane of her throat, or the curve of her neck.

But she’s still steady, sure as the feel of boards under your feet, as she turns takes your hand back in hers, and flips it over. She touches the callous of where your prosthetic rests, runs a finger feather-light across the mottled blue scar tissue, the swollen knub where you’d had to cut the bone loose. This is kind of weird, you think, but there’s a line between her brows as she murmurs something under her breath.

Then she looks up at you, and slowly, precisely, says: “-- have fixed?”

If she wasn’t holding your hands, you’d clap.

As is, you just beam. “Sure, yeah, absolutely,” you say, warm, and you should stop there, maybe? You are still just standing here, bleeding all over her room, but - she speaks an actual language. You can communicate! Finally. Maybe? “I mean, wait, is that present tense, or past tense? D’you mean, like, do I need to get it fixed, or that I should get it fixed, or, like - wait, fuck. Are you going to fix it?” You pause, wetting your lips. “Wait, is it presumptuous to assume you’re going to get it fi - hey!”

When she lets go of your hands, you’re not expecting her to immediately grab you again. “Hey, hey, don’t damage the goods,” you complain. She’s got her arms on your shoulders, and she’s trying to be gentle, but she’s a big troll. If she keeps pushing, she might break something! Because, really, you’ll stand a lot of things, but being shoved around, even by an indigo, just isn’t one of them. You’re going to just stand here, and stand your ground. After all, you’re a navyblood. And, sure, you’re only a midblood, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have pride.

She shoves you, a little less than gentle, and your ass hits the pillows.

“I chose to do that,” you tell her, and sure, she can’t understand you, but that apparently won’t stop her from rolling her eyes. “For the record! I am choosing to sit back down, and I am choosing to rest, okay? Like, this is absolutely -”

“Stop,” she says, just like her lusus, a little pop of a word, and she turns on her heel.

“I am choosing to stop,” you call after her, as the door slides shut. “Choosing! Remember that!”

---

The next time you open your eyes, there is no monkey in the room.

“Oh, thank the Empress,” you say, heaving a sigh. Sitting up is easier than it was yesterday! Was it yesterday? Maybe it was yesterday, or maybe it was two days - that’s one of the problems with being up in space, there’s no timescale. Watateg is a cheap station, and like all of the little atmospheric slums riding off of Alternia’s gravity well, it doesn’t bother to simulate night-time versus the day.

Good thing you’d stored up shoreleave all sweep. You’d planned on using it to take a long, refreshing vacation back on your rickshaw, and check up on things beyond the little visits that the Fleet allowed.. but you can do that later. Right now, you’re just happy you don’t have to move.

That happiness lasts approximately ten minutes. It ends once you’ve wandered through the entire room, located your shirt and your tail harness, and discovered your phone isn’t with either.

There’s a lot of things that a troll can handle! You’ve had fingers removed, fangs knocked out. The trials you’ve faced are numerous, and most of them are the type of things that would make a lower caste wilt. And some of them have been physical, sure, but some of them have been psychological. You’ve been tortured, practically speaking.

Literally speaking, after Bon-Hwa made you watch that film.

“Right now,” you say, morose, to the empty room, “I’d even take watching the Monkey King all over again, if it meant I had my phone. Like, shit, how do people live like this?” The bandages on your sides are freshly wrapped, with only the faintest smear of blood streaked across them. It’d been brought on by your bending, and moving, and walking. And putting the harness back on.

But the weight of it on your hips is comforting, even as the metal presses against your side. You’re not in danger at this teahouse, obviously! Your savior’s been taking way better care of you than anyone rightfully should, so if she was going to cull you, she would’ve done it already. If it was you, you’re not going to lie: sure, culling an indigo might’ve got you dragged through all nine rings of clown hell, but there’s a lot of meat on her, and there’s always a tons of grubs on your rickshaw.

It’d just have made sense?

But she’s a mainlander through and through, without a single spot to grace her face. Her skin’s too pale to have ever faced the moonlight of the sea. Her hands are a little darker, you think, but.. well, so are a lot of trolls. That’s what comes from using them to work all night long, and if you weren’t sure that this was absolutely serendipitous before, you’d be convinced now.

Because the thought actually makes you want to go and buy her gloves.

That’d be weird, you think, probably. She doesn’t even speak your language! Not really. But it’s fine. She’s been taking care of you for practically nights, now, for no real reason. That’s probably pale, you figure. And you did say you loved her, right at the start of things.

Sure, you’d thought it was pretty much a lie, but that was then. You could call it a lie, if you wanted to be an actual bulge about it, but.. no, you decide, it wasn’t. It was just a proactive kind of truth. So maybe you will buy her gloves to cover up her weird, dark hands, so they can match the rest of her properly. Sure, it’d be a little forward, but it isn’t like you haven’t already been. This whole thing is basically one stop short of a handfasting, if you think about it.

And when you think about it, you find that you’re pretty much down with the idea.

“Hey, lady,” you say, cheerful.

Your saviour turns to look at you.

The troll at the counter and the gun against her head shift to match.

“Uh,” you say, and the troll squints at you. One hand is on his gun, which - okay, yeah, you kind of want to laser-focus in on that, but it’s not helpful. That’s how you get anxious, and how you make poor decisions, because you’ve already got a wound seeping on your side, and a gunshot, even to the head, isn’t going to cull an indigo.. but you don’t want her wounded.

You absolutely do not want her wounded, at any costs, and that’s why you force yourself to pay attention to his other hand, instead. Play it safe! Play it casual, because the moment that you show fear is the moment that this fucker will make the wrong kind of decision. Right now, he’s leery, watching you, his movements hesitant as he lifts his hand to his visor.

It’s a model H.O.O.F. 45, the sort that every troll can find forty of on any local scrap shop. They’re basic, and outdated, but they’re still standardised enough to be useful. They can connect to the web. Pull up all sorts of information! Most bounty hunters have ‘em. Hell, you have one, back in your quarters on your ship.

You just can’t imagine what he’s looking for on it, or why -

“Why are you holding up a teashop?” you demand, pausing in the doorway. If it was a mainlander, you would’ve just stepped up right into his face. Even with the bandages on your side, your rickshaw markings are intensive enough that they can’t be hidden. Black swathes your shoulders, your neck, the entirety of your arm, and curls up around the corners of your face. There’s white in your hair and on your fingers. Usually, just the sight of this much squid ink is enough to make mainlanders balk.

After all, the deeper into the ocean you get, the more the markings increase. And everyone knows that nothing good has ever come from the ocean’s core.

But this troll has spots on his face. At this distance, you can’t quite see them! You don’t usually haul your glasses out with you on shoreleave. It ruins your whole look, and so his face is just kind of a multicoloured blur. You can see his symbol, though. That’s cerulean, bright as the shallow seas, and between that and the spots..

You’re only one caste above him. Sure, you’re better, but it’s only luck alone, and the both of you know it.

“Because,” he drawls, in the tangled up shallow sea Seacant, “teashops, breweries, ramen shops.. that’s where all the bounties go, first thing, when they park. That, or brothels. Checked those first! But guess you wanted to try something different, huh, Sun-sin?”

You look at him, and then at your saviour. She rolls her eyes up towards the ceiling, and sure, she’s not talking, but you can read her message clear all the same.

“Are you going to believe me, if I say I’m not Sun-sin?” you ask him.

“Absolutely not,” he says, cheerful. “That’s what they all say! And c’mon, man. You’re a navyblood from the Rickshaws up here. Right age, right height, right build.. and obviously..” He’s lowered his hand as he speaks, flashes his teeth at you. They’re perfectly sharpened, pointed slices of red, and.. yeah, he has to be from the shallow seas, you think.

Which is great, because you can work with that.

“D’you think all deep sea trolls look the same?” You take a step forward, keeping your prosthetic tail pointed down. He’s barely looked at the harness. Can you blame him? You do have a lot of skin on display, here, even if you know his eyes are tracing the black of your skin for all the wrong reasons. “That’s bigoted,” you say, disapproving. “Like, c’mon, do these look like they’re even this Sun-fuck’s markings?” You stretch out your arm. Right now, you’re not near enough to grab the gun and disable him, but if he doesn’t move.. “These are pretty distinct -”

“You can stop right there,” he says, and his free hand - goddamnit, why weren’t you watching his free hand? - is now pointing right at you, a second gun on display.

You should be afraid. The thought strikes you, briefly, like a flicker of light in the darkness - and then it’s swallowed up entirely by a new, infinitely more pressing thought.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, leaning forward on the counter, “how the fuck did you get that in space?”

Every Rickshaw has its own technology. The previous Calico had told you it was because each troll had their own skills, their own thoughts, and their own inspirations, which formed each Rickshaw’s culture, cohort after cohort. But you know better! That’s just superstitious swill.

The truth of the matter was: every Rickshaw had its own heap of trash and filth that had built up upon it, and the trolls who stayed and survived on its shores were the ones who learned from their forefathers. Each cohort cycle, grubs were taught by the previous ones, and by the time contributions came, they would have begun putting their own spin on it. II-J’s technology has your fingerprints on every corner, and your handprints on every slab, even though you’ve only been in charge for less than six sweeps.

It’s the same on every Rickshaw. Every Rickshaw has their own technology, and you’d thought you knew it all by sight. But the gun is all smooth, impossibly organic angles married to what must be stainless steel. It’s got the body of an MA-JL, but the style of an old A-BO. It’s fantastic. It’s gorgeous.

It’s new.

And it’s almost enough to distract you off of the way this troll has it pressed to your indigo’s head.

“Wrong question,” the cerulean drawls. Now, you’re close enough now that you can actually see his face. And the gun is new, but the spotting isn’t. There’s white mottling across his cheeks and eyes like moldsbright on a ship’s hull. Common enough on a lot of the shallow sea Rickshaws, but the black stripes along their cheeks aren’t. Most places take grubs wherever they can find them! It’s hard to stay picky when you’re always in need of replacements.

Your Rickshaw was one of the few that got picky. You’d been plucked up from the jadeblood’s ship because of the stark black of your markings, unusual enough to be noteworthy, and the only sort of markings that your lusus would abide. The guardian lusii liked their wards spots to be vivid, all the easier to see when their children would forever be so very small. And FF-K’s major guardian spurned grubs, mothering the whole lot of its rickshaw in their stead, but their lesser guardian wasn’t nearly as social. It had always liked to keep a child nearby, and it only ever cared for those who matched.

For them to be in space, their lusus must have found a new ward. You hadn’t heard of news of a transition, but why would you have? FF-K had always avoided your rickshaws circuits. And you’d always figured it was funny in the past, but now..

You hadn’t realised they’d been hiding things from you. You’d seen the jewelry and components they’d made, beautiful little masterpieces that shone like embers in the moon’s light. But FF-K had never sold weapons. One of their leaders had chosen stealth over violence, hundreds and hundreds of sweeps ago, and they’d never changed from it. FF-K trolls were always so docile. The only weapon they’d ever needed was their silver tongues.

“Is that organic?” you demand, enthralled. There’s no bolts, or screws, or the smooth, transitionary lines where one piece of steel was welded to the next. The shift in direction where the metal curves is so perfect that it might have come out of a cocoon. But cocoons are expensive. Cocoons require water, and food, and an energy intake that no rickshaw can manage for something as complicated as a gun.

Except, it seems, for FF-K.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Sunnyboy,” the troll tells you, dry. He tilts his wrist. The end of the gun shifts, pressing flat against the soft skin of your saviour’s face. “So let’s catch back up, okay? I have a gun to your girl’s head right now. You have a bounty out on your ass. Now, we can do it the nice way, where you agree like a good little papper to come on back to my ship, or else we can do it the hard way, where I shoot your rail and you just get dragged onto my ship instead. What d’you say?”

“Did you just call me a papper?” you demand, more curious than outraged. Because - yeah, okay, you can admit that’s fair. Your saviour is indigo, through and through. You’ve always been used to being the highest troll in the room, traditionally, but that’s not the case in the fleet. It hasn’t been the case for a few sweeps, honestly, and by now..

Well, you can’t really get offended that he’d assume you’re the papper, right? You’re a lot of things, but you’ve always respected tradition.

Unlike him, cerulean and threatening to shoot the head off of the literal nobility beside him. He clicks his tongue at you, disapproving. “Yeah, you’re definitely not taking this seriously, huh? Well, alright. If you want to go the second route -”

“No, no, no,” you say, quick. Getting shot isn’t going to kill an indigo, even if the gun is pressed against the curve of her jaw, hard enough that it must be braced against bone. Still, it’s not going to be pleasant, for her or you. You’ve done triage before. Picking bone out of someone’s sinuses has always been where you’ve drawn the line. Oh, you’d do it, because it’s her, but you just don’t think there’s a need.

Because for all of his bravado, the cerulean’s gun is loose and relaxed in his grip. Sure, he’s got a finger on the trigger, but he’s not anxious. He’s not going to pull it on accident, not when he can see the bandages wrapped tight around your chest, and when you’ve got one eye entirely swollen shut. Indigoes can survive a lot, from a gunshot wound to the face to even getting down and dirty with fuchsias. But you’re not indigo, and when so much of your torso is just one mottled bruise, the both of you know it

Sure, he’s cerulean, and you’re navy. But that’s only one caste above him, and even if it was a fair fight, you couldn’t necessarily guarantee that you’d win.

Luckily enough, you’ve never been interested in a fair fight at all.

“There’s no need to shoot anyone, dude,” you assure him, holding up your hands in front of you. You hadn’t found your prosthetic fingers again in the room, but it’s fine. It’s helpful, actually, because you can see the way the cerulean’s gaze drops towards the missing nub of your ring and forefinger. Injuries aren’t rare on the Rickshaws. Seeing a troll without his prosthetics, though.. that’s enough to throw someone off. “I mean, like, yeah, of course I’ll come, duh? Can’t have you shooting my moirail. ‘cause, like, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she’s kind of indigo, and I may be a lot of things, but I’m not an idiot? I know my place.”

“Even if you don’t know yours.” You click your tongue at him, dismissive, and there’s a line between his brows now as he tears his hands away from your fingers.It’s the first crack in the foundation.

You might be injured, but like that’s ever mattered. Trolls look at your brawn, and they forget what really matters is the basket of brainmeat that pilots it.

“If you’re trying something, Sunny --”

“Not my name,” you tell him, as sweet and patient as if you’re talking to one of the shaw’s pupas, “but no, don’t worry! If you want to take me in, you can do it right now. Just, like, break out the cuffs and slap ‘em on, but be gentle, okay? Like, it’s not my first time, obviously, physically? I’ve absolutely been in this scenario before. But emotionally! Spiritually! Like, as an action, between the two of us --”

“Stop talking,” he says, pained. But your saviour’s smirking in the corner, and that’s all that matters.

So you say: “Let me get back on track. Back to what we were talking about it! Yeah, you can absolutely just slap the cuffs on me, I don’t mind. I mean, sure, they’re going to laugh you out of the police station when they realise you’ve got the wrong troll? Not too bad, though, so don’t get anxious about it, or anything.”

“I mean,” you say, warm, watching his face, “you’re FF-K.” The key here is that it isn’t a question. He’s got a good poker face! So there’s no tell, like the slight opening of his eyes, or the flare of his nostrils. There’s just that line, deepening ever so slightly, and the way his lips part to protest.

So you stick the knife in. “They didn’t really expect better. I mean..” You click your teeth. “It’s not really your fault,” you say, sympathetic, “right? You’re cerulean. And you had the lesser guardian, up until he went and got a better version. They usually go for navies, don’t they? How long did you even have your lusus, before the jades came around and dropped off your replacement? Makes sense you’re out here, trying to chase down some famous -” You can’t say tail. Your tail is coiled behind you, loose, with slow, gentle movements to make sure it doesn’t enter into his line of sight. “- ass,” you say instead. “Flesh. Prove you’re worth something, even if your lusus doesn’t care anymore.”

He swallows hard. “Bold talk,” he says, and it’s almost a little impressive, the way his voice doesn’t crack. “Good psychobabble! Tell you what, if I shoot you in the face, do you think they’ll still accept the body?”

“Absolutely not. Because the face’s the confusing bit, you know? See, FF-K - it’s fucking unfortunate that you guys are so reclusive. You don’t let people in. You’re as bad as the islanders, sometimes. Always dodging, and weaving, and -”

“We don’t want deep sea fucks on our shaw,” he says, dry. “Never asked, but I think it’s the cannibalism.”

“The cannibalism’s overrated, dude.” You take a step forward, just to see. The way he jerks, the gun pulling up from its half-slouch, isn’t entirely unexpected. He snaps: “- keep back, keep back, you’re not getting over here. Did you forget your girl?”

Your girl in question’s watching the two of you, eyebrows raised.

“Not at all,” you say, and you spread your hands out in front of you, wiggling your fingers. “Dude, calm down, what am I going to do to you? I don’t have a gun. I don’t have fingers. Like, sure, you’re a cerulean, but - we’re both midbloods, here. We’re basically the same! We’re midbloods, we’re fresh-faced to the fleet, we’ve got guardian lusii -”

When you look sideways, just to see your girl’s expression, she doesn’t look impressed. It’s fine! She’s probably a mainlander. She’ll absolutely be impressed later, you’re pretty sure.

In the meanwhile, the bounty hunter is giving you the reaction you want. “You don’t have a guardian lusus,” he snaps, raking his eyes up and down, like you might have your lusus tattooed onto your skin. “The bounty said you have a tigerfish.”

“Do my markings look like I’m a fucking tigerfish, dude?”

Something shifts on his face. “Markings don’t have to match the lusus,” he says. “That’s only a thing on some rickshaws. Maybe yours doesn’t do it. Maybe you went and got your lusus killed --”

“

“You’re standing in the presence of the seven hundredth Calico.” When you smile, for the first time, you bare all of your teeth. “Congratulations, dude. Maybe I’ll make you an award. You went fishing, and you got the wrong kind of catfish, but shit - happens to everyone, once or twice, right?”

“Oh shit,” he breathes, then bites his lip, like he never meant for that to come out at all.

It would’ve been great if he’d just turned tail then and there! It would’ve worked out so very well, because there’s a ripping feeling in your side, worsening with every moment you’re still upright. But he isn’t. There’s that flicker of awareness in his eyes, the sight of those red fangs digging into his lip - then he squares his shoulders, taking a deep breath like he’s steadying himself.

It’d be admirable, if it wasn’t so inconvenient. You need to wrap this up, you think, before your body tries to wrap it up for you.

“You know what? Sometimes you get the wrong kind of catfish,” he says, “but I know there’s a bounty out on you, too. A Calico, huh? What Rickshaw’s that, again?”

“You know the number,” you tell him. “Everyone knows the number.”

His smile’s a thin slash across his face. His grip’s tightened on both of his guns, just enough that you can see white blossoming on his knuckles. It’s a shame that he’s a shallow sea troll, in a way, because he’s got the sort of spine you admire.

“But that’s fine. Play brave! I get it, I really do. I mean, like - gods, you’ve got a hard life going on. The mainland doesn’t want you. The ocean doesn’t want you. The deep-sea rickshaws - sure, we want you, but you don’t want us. We’ve got blood in our teeth and salt in our veins. All the big bad tigersharks. You can admire ‘em, but you don’t want to be near ‘em. And you don’t want to see them.”

“Because when you see them, it just reminds you of all the things you aren’t. Too wet for the ground, too dry for the deep. You’re always scrapping, and scraping, and fighting for anything, from anyone - acknowledgement, wealth, enough clean water to keep your rigs running. Respect! And you can’t get it. How could any of you get it? Maybe the midbloods, but the lowbloods..”

“You people can’t even keep your fucking lusii,” you say, and his exhale is almost as loud as a gunshot.

Almost. “They’ll take you, and they’ll love you, and they’ll keep you - until they see a grub that’s better, same as everyone else. Did you try to win your lusus back?” Intimidation’s easy to use on the rickshaws. But the problem with that is that it’s so common! The smack of a fist is more common than the wag of a tongue on the rickshaws. People expect it. They crave it, in a way, because it’s what their used to.

No one’s used to sympathy. No one’s used to kindness on the rickshaws, except for you, and that’s what’s always made it the best weapon of all. Isn’t your saviour just proof of that? She rescued you, when you were bleeding and wounded and weak, and now..

Well, you’re not dying for her tonight. But there is a gun pointed at you. You might’ve paid it more attention, if you couldn’t stop thinking about the gun pointed at her.

“You did try,” you say, firm, and he doesn’t object.

You take a step forward.

And this time, the bounty hunter takes a step back.

“All you poor shallow sea fucks,” you say, and the sympathy in your voice’s real, this time around, because how could it not be? Alternia’s full of drowned souls, lost in waters deep enough they’ve never seen the sky. One night, you’re going to fish them all out. Trolls might’ve come from the sea, but only the nobility stayed in it. The rest of you were born to leave. You were meant for the stars, and the breeze, and the whole ocean spread out in front of you, waiting for you to take advantage.

The deep-sea rickshaws embraced it. You knew what was in the depths, and you knew what was in the sky, and you took the best from both. You prayed to the deep, and you lived in the light. The ocean took from you, but in the end, it’d always give back.

“It’s not your fault you’re all so desperate. You were hatched with salt in your lungs, but you chose dirt under your nails. You’ve gone and grounded yourselves, tied yourself to the chalk and silt, and what’s it ever given you? You don’t know what’s under the waters. And you’re all too scared to even try. It’s fine,” you say, warm, reaching out. You rest a hand on his shoulder, and, yeah, sure, there’s a gun pressed to your chest.

His finger’s on the trigger. You remember that, but it’s fine, because he doesn’t. He’s looking up at you, doe-eyed, and.. he’s not that young. He’s your age, you think, and his eyes are cerulean. It makes you feel better about all of this.

“All the deep sea rickshaws were like that, once. But Dominion forgives. Because he told us, when we still from the shallow seas, that in the soul of each troll is a seed,” you tell him, “and in Dominion’s garden, they will always grow.”

Then you snap his neck.

“You could at least look grateful,” you complain, as your saviour steps back, delicately, away from the body crumpling at her feet. How many people have died on her floor this week? You’re going to have to ask, once the two of you can actually tal.k “I mean - look at that! That was a quality fucking performance. I should get paid. Maybe I’ll just go get a checkbook and pay myself, how’s about that?”

She looks at you.

And then she laughs, and slaps a hand on your shoulder. She still has very big hands! It turns out she’s got very heavy hands, too, because you can’t even pretend the slap doesn’t nearly send you to the floor. It’s fine, though. Because she tightens her grip on your shoulder, steps over, and begins steering you, taking your weight as easily as if you were a grub. “No pay,” she says, all bubble pops of language, and pulls you back towards the room.

+++

The next time you wake up, you actually feel like a troll.

You look like one, too, because -

“Oh, thank god, I have a shirt on,” you say.

Your saviour is off sitting by the door, where her lusus once sat. The two of them don’t look that similar, all things considered. Some trolls look just like their guardians. Your markings are a near dead match to your guardians, but maybe it’s not a thing, on the mainland.

“You do,” she says, but it’s not the bubble pop of her foreign words. Instead, it’s a familiar baritone, whispered right into your ear. It’s not just your shirt that’s back, then. Your translator worm is finally back, too.

“Found it while I was cleaning. Do you want it?”

“I understood everything.” She leans forward, resting her chin on her knuckles. She looks so dignified like this. You’ve made a point of never going too far in-land, but you’re certain that you’ve seen Preuskan statues just like that in one of the makeshift clown temples someone had set up in the lockers. “I have voodoos, boy,” she says, dry. “I can hear every little songbird chirp of your brain. Do you ever stop thinking?”

“No,” you tell her, and then pause. “Oh, wait, you can hear - everything?”

“Everything,” she says, watching you. “That a problem? Don’t lie. I’ll hear it.”

You’d like to say you consider it. It would be interesting, you think, to be the sort of troll that’d be bothered by that sort of thing. You’re pretty sure it’s a part of the whole thing of being a midblood? “I don’t care,” you decide. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? I mean, honestly, it just makes everything easier. So you totally did know I said I love you, right?”

She snorts. “What time?”

“Any of them! They’re all true,” you tell her, earnest. “It’s all one hundred, completely true. I mean, but, you totally heard that, right?”

“I heard you thinking you could divide me up for meat,” she says, dry. “Is that what the cannibalism is? Are you going to try to cook me?”

“I’d never try to cook you. Look -” You stumble to your feet. In a moment, she’s sitting upright, holding up a hand like she’s going to push you back down. But you shake your head, and she settles back down. “That was a sign of my deep and everlasting affection,” you tell her. For a moment, you wonder why this feels like the most important moment of your life. But maybe --

“It probably is the blood loss,” she says, mild.

“It’s blood loss brought on by how deeply my heart is throbbing with pity for you,” you tell her, earnest. “Like, sure, it might be the blood loss, but it’s blood loss and pity, dude. Like, if you can read my thoughts - that’s great! Then you absolutely know. Like, hell, you probably knew how completely, one hundred percent sincere I was, even before I knew I was sincere.”

“That’s not really how that works.”

“If you think about it,” you barrel on, “you’ve been in my head for like, what, six days now? Seven? Probably an entire week. At least forty eight hours. That’s better than okay. Honestly, all things considered, it practically means we’re hand-fasted, right? Trolls have to work for sweeps to get to that sort of honesty, and it’s, like, shit, you were just here all along, already frogstepping us up to it.”

She doesn’t laugh. She has the face that would work well with laughing, but that’s fine - the way she tilts her head to the side, lip curling up, is almost better than anything else you could’ve pictured. “We are absolutely not handfasted,” she says. “Slow down.”

“It practically means we’ll be hand-fasted in three sweeps,” you amend. “At the latest. It’s just like - the meat thing! I’d never try to cook you. I just think it’s very admirable, and charming, that I could? You could feed an entire rickshaw, if you wanted to. Like, that’s a meal for days. That’s the real community spirit -”

She doesn’t laugh, but the sound she makes almost sounds like it.

That, or she’s choking.

“Anyway! Let’s move on from that.” It hurts to stand up, but whatever. You manage it all the same. It’s been at least forty eight hours. Your side twinges, but there’s no blossom of blood on the bandages this time. “My name is Calico Kuanfu,” you say, letting you voice drop back to the sort of brisk, formal tone you use with your superiors. “Leader of Rickshaw II-J. Keeper of the hai-hai. And, like, if you’ll have me - your pale?”

She looks at you.

You’ve never really had a moment of doubt in your life. You’ve had brief, fleeting impressions of them, the split-second awareness of a path that you could venture down. But it’s like standing at the edge of a hivestem, and realising you could jump. It’s enough to make you pause, but it’s not something that you’ve ever really considered.

It’s not something that’s ever been an option in your life, and it isn’t now. You don’t believe in serendipity, really. But when she looks at you, indigo eyes half-lidded, that lopsided smile still on her face..

You already know what she’s going to say. You can’t imagine there’s a world that she wouldn’t.

When she stands up, it’s like watching her lusus. She doesn’t stand so much as she seems to unfold, each fraction of a movement revealing more and more of her at a time. When she’s on her feet, you have to look up at her. She’s tall enough to make you look small. She’s broad enough to make you feel young.

“My name is Ognais,” she says. “And sure. We’ll try it out.”

“Great,” you say, and flop back into the bed. “I’m going to sleep for a week now, if that’s cool? Like, love the murder fest we’ve been having, but - sleep! Sleep is great, too.” You worm underneath the blankets like a wharfrat, dragging them as high as you can manage. The bed’s softer than the one in your quarters on your ship, and it smells better, too. Not that it’s hard, all things considered. “Man, if you’re always in my head, then that’s great. D’you know how much time I waste trying to cut things down for people? Keep it quick and easy, everyone says, but, like, nobody ever thinks about how hard that is for me. But you’re right here! You can just hear everything, so it’s fine. And if you hear everything, that means -”

The blanket is nearly over your head. You pause.

Ognais, slightly muffled, says: “- no.”

“Oh, god,” you breathe. “Oh, god, you heard everything. Even about the Monkey King porn? No. Not about that. Unless -”

“We’re not talking about that,” she says.

“I didn’t finish watching it,” you say, tossing the blanket aside. Your side hurts when you jerk upright, but you really need to look her in the eyes while you say it, so she knows it’s genuine. Unfortunately, she’s turned her back, and is already half-out the door. So you call after her, instead: “- I didn’t finish watching it! You hear that? I totally didn’t. I covered my eyes! I didn’t have the emotional strength for it, even with Bon-Hwa right there! Totally not lying! Remember, I said, like, day one - I would absolutely never lie to you again - so -”

“Good morning,” she says, and clicks the door shut.

You exhale, then collapse back onto the bed.

Well, you decide, it has to be serendipity. Because if she didn’t dump you after that, you think, that has to be fate.

#calico kuanfu #ognais tarmac #writing

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