#finally starting to feel like a person again and not just a big trashfire

[stevenuniversallyreviews]

Episode 121: Rocknaldo

“I don't love that. I don't accept that.”

Ronaldo Fryman has always been annoying.

From his first speaking role in Cat Fingers, and his first starring role in Keep Beach City Weird, this has been obvious. He’s selfish and insensitive, dominating every conversation he’s a part of and refusing to respect viewpoints that differ from his. He works well in small doses, where his grating nature can be properly diluted, so it’s understandable that an entire episode of Ronaldo at peak Ronaldo is not a widely beloved entry in the Steven Universe canon. But even though I can’t stand watching Rocknaldo, I actually, uh, kind of love it.

That’s a hard “uh, kind of” though. It’s tough to separate my emotions about this one, because I respect such an incredible portrayal of toxic fandom, but I hate toxic fandom so much that I don’t enjoy spending time with it, even as parody. This isn’t an episode I’m ever in the mood for, but it’s just so good at what it’s doing that I can’t stay mad at it.

Ronaldo’s propaganda is first played for laughs, with Steven’s bewilderment at what he’s reading (“They’re adding mind-controlling minerals to our water suppl—they hate men?”) and the vaudevillian back and forth of Ronaldo’s Rock People talking points and Steven’s quick and absolute dismissals. Ronaldo’s embarrassment is a bit of a surprise considering he’s never seemed capable of such a sensation, and his willingness to admit he’s wrong seems like a good sign, but oh boy does that attitude not last.

The mindset that led Ronaldo to make his bad faith arguments in pamphlet form (which he calls Ronalphlets because heaven forbid we get the idea that it’s not about him) persists, and it’s so much worse in conversation than as printed media. It’s not enough that he impedes on Steven’s personal space, but he checks off multiple key items on the Pathetic Internet Troll I Find Useless List (or “PITIFUL” if we’re using proper jargon). He’s casually sexist. He negs Steven into accepting his intrusions. He gatekeeps the concept of being a “true” Crystal Gem, which is lousy in a bubble but so much worse in practice because he’s doing it to an actual Crystal Gem. He gaslights by stating his incorrect views as obvious facts, complete with his own lingo, to make Steven question his own validity. And perhaps worst of all, he takes advantage of Steven’s empathetic nature to pretend that a tolerant person must accept abuse.

On the one hand, Ronaldo’s extreme behavior can be chalked up to severe sleep loss; that’s certainly the angle the episode goes for. But on the other, his toxicity begins well before he decides to stop sleeping, and as someone whose record for consecutive waking hours is an inadvisable thirty-six, fatigue will make you cranky, but it won’t make you more conniving. In cartoon world it’s a clean device to up Ronaldo’s awfulness in a way we can walk back from, but ugh he’s still a trashfire. Zach Callison always deserves kudos, and Rocknaldo is no exception, but Zachary Steel wins out here for capturing such a loathsome version of his character.

A key ingredient for Rocknaldo is timing. Steven just had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and this is our first glimpse at how it’s changed him, so what better way to test our all-loving hero than to pit him against a black hole of selfishness? He’s grown a lot since Keep Beach City Weird in a way Ronaldo hasn’t, and while his instinct is still kindness, now there’s a welcome dose of teen moodiness mixed in. 

It takes a while for Steven to realize it’s a grift, but beyond this slowness being a necessity for the conflict of the episode to work, it makes sense for where he’s at this point in the show. Again, kindness is an instinct for this kid, and even when Ronaldo starts getting infuriating, we’ve seen Steven be patient with him before. He’s also got that martyr complex revved up: this isn’t the first or last time he’s been willing to suffer to make someone else comfortable. He knows how much it sucks to be called the wrong name by now, so he’s the only person who consistently calls Ronaldo “Bloodstone.” And considering Rose Quartz wasn’t what he thought, he now feels that he must double his efforts to be his best self to compensate.

Also important is Steven’s willingness to defend his friends from the start, calling the term “Rock People” offensive and defending the Gems’ decision to leave Ronaldo behind on a dangerous mission. He can take Ronaldo’s lousiness all day, but finally snaps when Connie’s worthiness is insulted. It’s sweet that he sticks up for people, but it’s a bummer that he probably would’ve put up with Ronaldo even longer if the only one suffering was himself. Steven would do anything for his friends, but he’s not doing much for Steven.

This is why Ronaldo is the ideal antagonist for an episode coming off Steven’s space adventure. Steven’s selflessness contrasts perfectly with Ronaldo’s selfishness, but instead of a story about selflessness being good and selfishness being bad, we see how selflessness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Yes, it’s good to care about others, but it’s also important to have boundaries and enough self-respect to defend yourself; this isn’t even the first time we’ve gotten this message, but it bears repeating. There’s are limits to tolerance that trolls will always exploit (“White Nationalists aren’t welcome here? So much for the ‘Tolerant Left!’”), and on a show about empathy we need for Steven (and the audience) to see that empathy doesn’t mean being a doormat.

Steven’s patience fuels the episode, but the wheels are greased by the Amethyst and Pearl’s disdain. It’s a minor part of Rocknaldo, but I’m not sure I could survive how grating Ronaldo is without some backup from the Gems.

Garnet may lead a slow clap at Steven’s rousing speech on the nature of acceptance, but Amethyst is happy to crack jokes at Ronaldo’s self-seriousness, down to that perfect impression near the end of the episode. Meanwhile, Pearl openly hates the guy. We don’t even get Sassy Pearl (perhaps the greatest Pearl of all), she’s just bluntly dismissive as a refreshing antidote to Steven’s hospitality. She doesn’t bother to remember his ridiculous new name because she refuses to humor the notion that he’s a Gem, and it totally works for me; misnaming is played for drama when Steven is concerned, as befits the trans allegory that comes to a head in Change Your Mind, but Ronaldo is a human belittling Steven’s identity by pretending he shares it, so “Bloodstone” isn’t worth getting right to her (it helps that “Fryrocko” is also a delightful thing to call somebody). This jokey take on names works in the moment, but more importantly primes us for a more serious take in our last scene.

The final conversation, after a rare time jump, does salvage Ronaldo somewhat. He apologizes and admits he was acting like a jerk, and remains dedicated to helping the Crystal Gems in his own weird way. But the root of his problem isn’t gonna up and go away, and that root, again, is selfishness. He doesn’t fit in because he would rather the world adjust to meet his whims than take a single step towards self-improvement, so he chooses to see himself as “the ultimate outsider.” I guess it’s nice to find a positive spin on qualities you’re not great at, but it reeks of self-importance in a way that’s true to the character but is still frustrating to watch. Ronaldo is very good at being who he is, but I just don’t have much patience for intentionally annoying characters.

Still, we get that lovely moment of Steven talking about his name; it’s not a big revelation that folks only call him Rose Quartz when they’re mad at him, but verbalizing it shows that he’s aware of the pattern. The issue of his name will pop up more and more, becoming a cornerstone of both the Season 4 and Season 5 finales, so it’s nice to discuss it in a calm moment so we can keep Steven’s opinion in the back of our minds when things get messy. Ronaldo, to his credit, asks permission before sharing this story on his pamphlet, and evokes fellow emotionally-challenged antagonist Zuko in his attempt at solidarity. (Fun fact: in no other way is Ronaldo similar to Zuko.)

Moving from Zuko to Zuke: I don’t know where Rocknaldo’s production lined up on the timeline of the Steven Universe fandom's worst elements harassing Jesse Zuke, but I hope Zuke got some level of catharsis in portraying such “fans” in this pathetic manner. Speaking as a guy with a blog, calling Ronaldo “just a guy with a blog” is perfect putdown for a loser that makes himself feel big by pretending to know how to run a ship better than the captain. Imagine if I spent every post saying how much better of a storyteller I am than this crew. Ugh.

Fandoms can do great things, but man are they pros at doing horrible things. During the week that I wrote this review, a 15-year-old Super Smash Bros player got yelled off the internet for beating an established player in an incredible fashion, because while the community adores a young upstart, they can’t stand when that upstart is a girl. And no, I’m not saying the entire fandom did it, just as the entire Steven Universe fandom didn’t target one of the show’s best boarders (note that this article was written when Zuke still went by Lauren), but there are more than enough Ronaldos in every community, and it’s up to people who comprehend the basic tenets of empathy provided by a show they claim to love to stand up to such bullies.

If you don’t like Rocknaldo, that’s just fine. Because you shouldn’t like how Ronaldo acts in it. Liking something doesn’t give you the right to harass people, so do your part in shutting that nonsense down. 

I’ve never been to this…how do you say…school?

Just give us an episode with Peridot, Yellow Pearl, Peedee, and Ronaldo trapped in a room already.

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

I hate watching this episode, but that doesn’t mean I hate the episode. It does its job very well, which is worthy of admiration even if I’m probably never going to watch it again now that this review is done.

Top Twenty

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

Last One Out of Beach City

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Mindful Education

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Earthlings

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Beach City Drift

Winter Forecast

Bismuth

Steven’s Dream

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

Keeping It Together

We Need to Talk

Chille Tid

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Catch and Release

When It Rains

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Monster Reunion

Alone at Sea

Crack the Whip

Beta

Back to the Moon

Kindergarten Kid

Buddy’s Book

Gem Harvest

Three Gems and a Baby

That Will Be All

The New Crystal Gems

Storm in the Room

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Restaurant Wars

Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service

Greg the Babysitter

Gem Hunt

Steven vs. Amethyst

Bubbled

Adventures in Light Distortion

Gem Heist

The Zoo

Rocknaldo

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

Know Your Fusion

Future Boy Zoltron

No Thanks!

     6. Horror Club      5. Fusion Cuisine      4. House Guest      3. Onion Gang      2. Sadie’s Song      1. Island Adventure

[activatingaggro]

shake me / wake me / go, man, go

NANAKO BONJOU | 12 SWEEPS / 26 YEARS OLD RICCIN KAYATA | 10 SWEEPS / 20 YEARS OLD

Temasek, Alternia | 4151 words

CW: references to drug / alcohol abuse

When you knock open the hotel room door, smoke rolls out in one big fume, thick enough that you can see it in the air. Or you could, if your eyes would stop fucking watering. They're streaming yellow right down the slopes of your cheek once you finally stop coughing, heavy enough that you lay a frond to your face, just to see.

It comes back smog.

"Goddamnit, Loxias," you snap, and stalk inside.

The hotel that you've had her holed up in isn't expensive. The fuck would you ever drop that sort of cash on some illbred rustblood, so long that she's bypassed the dirt and gone straight to mud in her veins? It'd be a waste. It ain't that your girl's just broke: it's that she's nasty, through and through. There's bottles strewn all across the keratin tile of the floor. A week ago, shit was white. Now, it's got fucking stains. Worse yet, your shoe keeps fucking sticking.

There's a lump sprawled across the frayed fabric of the sopor loungesack. At the start of things, you'd thought Loxias might've passed off as pretty, if she ever tried. But that was when she was possessed, long-limbed and feral and with an energy that'd burned straight out of her core. Now she's just limp-limbed, like her bones have been cored with jelly and her spine's been yanked clear through. There's nothing pathetic about this shit.

It's just aggravating, and when you misstep, your heel slipping on a bottle laying half-full on the ground, you ain't ashamed to say you fucking shriek.

She stirs in a rattle of braids, but is it enough to pull herself all the way up? 'course it fucking ain't. She lifts her chin. The braids shift, just enough, to reveal one gloomy eye, skin swollen with the mud of her blood underneath it. "Hey," she says, plainative, like you ain't nearly just hit the floor: "- hey, 'm tryin' to sleep over here."

"It's high midnight, sister," you say, "and the roaches are comin' out."

"Huh," she says, contemplative, and drops her head back down into the cushion.

In the end, you snatch her up by the scruff of her shirt, your fronds curled to keep clear of her braids. She hangs limp from your hand all the way to the bathroom, and even when you toss her into the tub, the motherfucker just oozes. It takes the water hitting her skin - cold as you can make it, cranked hard as it will fucking fall - before she finally stirs, mouth twisted into a mouie, and pushes her braids back.

She doesn’t bother to get out of the tub. She just lets the water run down her in rivulets, practically radiating the sulk coming from her glands, and looks up at you.

“Unnecessary, brah,” she says, and a drop rolls off her nose.

“The fuck are you still sleeping for?” You yank down the shower head so it sprays right onto her, but the only response you get is her flopping onto the side of the tub, looking like nothing better than a wet barkbeast.

“It’s only midnight.” How can one troll sound so fucking petulant?

“Who sleeps until midnight?”

She doesn’t have a response to that. She just oozes deeper into the tub, for all the world like she’s going to sink under the water pooling in it entirely. If you let her, would she drown? The thought’s tempting. Girl’s useful to you, but --

-- you have never seen someone so old, who’s quite this much of a fucking mess. It’s a wonder she’s survived to be as old as she is! It’s a fucking tragedy, in more ways than one, and maybe the kindest thing to do would be to call Chiloa over. Make him handle this shit, pull her into the program, or toss her to the IPC as good will, or whatever the fuck he deems necessary.

But then you wouldn’t know what to do at all. Loxias’s the only guidance you have right now, the yarn to follow out of the maze of your goddamn life, and that means she’s your mess now, until she’s served her purpose.

So you snatch her by a horn instead, and haul her up until she’s draped like a dishrag across the rim of the tub instead.

Loxias growls at you, but it’s half-hearted. She’s as dull-fanged as they come, in mind and tooth: the fire’s banking as fast as it flared, her lids falling heavily again as she seems to sink onto the end of the tub. “Lemme sleep,” she says, coaxing, “I’ll dreamwalk. Show you something cool, brah. Don’t have the energy for fortunes.” Her tone oozes towards the accusatory: “- didn’t think you were coming until tomorrow.”

“I’m not keeping you up here ‘cause you’re pretty, sister.” But dreamwalk - now that’s a word. You eye her up, curious, but.. nah, you decide. She ain’t lying. She’s too limp for that, too spineless all the way through to muster up a fib. “You’re here to work. Not get high and fucking drink.”

“Dreamwalking is work,” she argues doggedly. Then she squints at you, pauses like she’s turning over words in her mouth. “Been worrying, yeah? I’ll get you a dream to fix that.”

“If,” she says, “you let me sleep.”

When you open your eyes, you’re in the Hanhai.

Loxias always looks better in dreams. Younger, too, maybe your age, with dewy eyes and clothes that’re several sizes too big: a black jacket, all leather, that hangs loose on their shoulders, and white patched pants held up by a belt wrapped tight.

When she’s awake, her skin’s always covered. Now, with only a bandeau on, you can see the signs that curve across her collarbone and dip towards her chest, a hundred thousand symbols in every shade of red that look almost like Pheres. The Arietids, shining bright as the meteors they’re named after, and you’re curious on how far back they might’ve gone. Tempted to ask, too, if she didn’t go and clear her throat.

She just raises her eyebrows when you look at her. “Brah,” she says, disbelieving. “Braaah. You comin’?”

There’s always that moment of pause, when you spot the veins in her eyes and the bags underneath and remember: yeah, this’s the same manky-ass trashfire underneath. And the urge dies.

“Yeah,” you say, disappointment curling in on your gut, “sure.”

You’ve never liked the Hanhai much. It ain’t like it’s ever done nothing to you. The fuck is there to do? Once, it’d been a sea. Then the Empress had drained it, and now it’s all sand, white and pearlescent as far as the eye can see. If you dug deep enough under it all, you’d find the spires and buildings of the old seadweller cities, or the personal homes that trolls built and lost in the centuries since. Pheres loves the Hanhai. For a troll willing to work it out, it’s full of shit worth plundering, artifacts best locked away or destroyed, to make sure nobody ever uses ‘em.

But as far as you’re concerned, it’s never been worth enough to work it out, not when there’s zombies to contest. Let the dead keep their secrets. They guard ‘em well enough. And the few towns and settlements within have just never been worth visiting. Port Mina is the shining jewel of the desert, the only place you reckon is really worth visiting, and that’s as far as you’ve ever wanted to go.

That ain’t the case for whoever’s dreaming, though, ‘cause the sun’s high up in the sky, but there’s no sign of anything to be seen. You’re in the heart of the Hanhai now, so close to the center you can’t even see the mountain, and there’s nothing as far as the eye can see.

“Are we even in the right spot?” you hiss at her. “If you’re fucking with me, sister, I will wake both of us up before you can even -”

“Sh!” she hisses back, and then the saddleback mounts the nearest dune.

By the time it’s reaching the bottom, there’s six of them all in a trail, ribbons tied onto the notches of their shells, bells and beads setting off like noisemakers on their sides. Saddlebacks are the finest of mounts, this far into the deserts.

There’s trolls on their backs, covered in white fabric from head to toe, with the fine arches of their horns shining red under the suns light. You’re stepping forward before you think twice about it. Lunatics are a rare lot, content to live in the deep deserts and rarely coming far out of them. You’ve heard about them. Who hasn’t? Back before the Ascension, when adults still roamed freely and the Fleet was little more than a fucking pipedream, motherfuckers had been as common as salt.

Now they’re dead, mostly, save a few straggling remnants, and the survivors hide. You’ve never seen the sect before. Chances are, you never will again, and certainly not like fucking this. So you scramble up the dune, feet slipping on the sand, hands splaying to catch yourself when you fall. It bites into your skin, but shit’s a dream. There’s no gold blood spilling, no matter how much you scuff, and there’s no pain to keep you slow.

So you catch up soon enough.

The trolls pay you no mind on their beasts. Why should they ever? It’s a dream, and you’re a figment, some bit that they won’t see now, and won’t recall in the morning. So you can take your time, drink these motherfuckers in.

You reach out, tugging on the cloth. It’s cotton, you think, left so thin that you can see your fronds through it, and worn soft by exposure. There’s colours woven through it, pinks and limes faded near-white, but they don’t make any signs you’ve seen before. Nah, it’s something different -

- then it jerks free from your hands when the saddleback rears back, affronted.

It rips open its maw, flashing those many-ringed teeth at you as its eyestalks pull back. You’re already moving, hands up - you can’t die in a dream, but like hell you’re going to see - but then the troll onboard murmurs something, warm and musical. The saddleback settles, sucking its eyestalks in reluctantly. Then it starts inching on past again, steadily trundling, and you let out your breath.

“Haha, holy shit,” Loxias says, “why’d you touch it?”

“Did you just say haha, sister?”

“Yah,” she says, smug, and that’s about all the sass you feel like hearing from her.

But you keep your hands to yourself after that, locking them firm behind your back as the procession goes by. Now that you ain’t touchin’ ‘em, they’re back to ignoring you. Six saddlebacks, each hosting a troll on its humps. The eldest ones - the largest ones - of the Lunatics are up front, and behind ‘em are their get, the pupas they collect.

The rumour in the seatowns, back when you were real young, was that they stole grubs straight from the caverns, to raise ‘em up as fodder and cultists. But all the tales of the Navigressors and the Lunatics get merged, out on the coast, and you don’t reckon that’s true. These aren’t the newly pupated, fat-limbed and round-cheeked. Nah, these are wrigglers, with lusii that trot neatly beside the saddlebacks, or ride in the pouches on their sides.

Wrigglers wrapped up so tight in their shawls and laces that you can’t tell their colours, and you’re so busy peering at ‘em, trying to puzzle it out, you almost don’t notice when a saddleback stops. Then there’s dust in your face as one of the pupas hits the ground next to you in a plume of sand. Standing up, she shakes her hair and wipes her hands like anyone could even fucking notice the sand on her.

Then she tilts her head back, as far as it’ll go, and then back some more. Little mite’s probably one of the smallest on the train, but the rest don’t seem to notice her absence: the saddleback’s trundling on, unbothered, and you’d feel bad for her abandonment, if it weren’t a fucking dream.

“Hi!”

“Hey there,” you say, but she’s not paying you any mind. She’s looking you up and down, ears pinning back, and then -

“Alamekkk,” the pupa says, despairing, and there’s something familiar about the shape of her horns. They’re almost a foot long, looking almost as long as her goddamn body, but when her shawl slips low, you can see a bone brace around her neck, curving across her shoulders for support. “Your skin! So pale - here.” It wasn’t a slip. She’s shimmied out of it in a moment, then she’s just holding it expectantly out to you. “Take, takee, takeee.”

It’s not a question. It’s too small for you at a glance, but this is the way of dreams: it stretches as you pull it up, until you’re slipping something sized to you over your head, settling into the shadows. Were you hot, before? You must’ve been, because even this scratchy fabric’s a relief.

The pupa nods, brisk, like she’s satisfied. “Who’re you?”

“No names,” Loxias says.

“Riccin,” you say, and you’re not expecting the elbow to your side. It might be a dream, but turns out shit still hurts; you double over with a snarl, clutching the spot, but the fucking brownblood’s just glaring, her lip curled with more ire than you’ve ever seen her manage.

“Brah, what the fuck?”

“She asked!” you snap back, sidling to the side, and the pupa’s just watching the both of you, thoughtful. “What’s it gonna hurt, answering a question? I ain’t a fucking savage. I got manners, sister, and there ain’t no call to go ignoring shit, just ‘cause you’re all twitterpatted over the fucking answer.”

“You’re dumb,” Loxias tells you, brisk, and you don’t dignify that as a response, save turning your back.

The wriggler’s sun-dark, with a hide striped green with wounds. You whistle as you bend down, squinting against the light, but ain’t that just the wonder of a dream? It shifts to match you, the moons themselves dimming to let you see all the better.

Poor wretch! There’s jade-bright wounds dug deep into her skin, swirls and designs in a writ you can’t read. It forms lines and circles and triangles within, all curving in on themselves, tangling up like sentences tripping atop of each other. It’d be gorgeous, if it weren’t for the way the skin’s swelling. It’d be depressing, if you didn’t feel like you were a moment from reading the secrets within.

There’s a hundred things you could say. Sympathy’s at the tip of your tongue, but - this is devotion, you think, and the curve of your spine aches at even the thought of that kind of slap. “What’s it say, little jade?” you ask instead, mild.

She’s been watching you. But now she turns over her arms, peering down at the lines carved in like they’re new. “Oh!” The pupa shrugs. “They’re moon writs,” she says, plain. “They hurt. But they’re worth it. Can I ask you something?”

“A question for a question’s only fair,” you tell her.

“Why the fuck are you in my dream?”

“Told you,” Loxias sings from behind you. “Told youuuuuu.”

The pupa’s been squinting up at you. But now she turns her gaze towards Loxias, who takes one look at her and scatters back. Like an afterthought, she grabs hold of your shirt. It’s a dream. It is absolutely a fucking dream, because there’s no way this skinny waif of a reed should ever be able to yank you anywhere - but Loxias hauls you like you’re nothing more than a sack of bananas, back three steps and all the way down the dunes.

The pupa is shrieking, racing after you. Not fast enough: girl’s nothing but a blur in your vision as her body distorts and twists, into something you don’t see. There’s sand in your eyes, kicked up with each kick of Loxias’s step, and tears in them where the dirts getting caught. You squeeze them shut, hard -

- and when you open them, you’re back in the bathroom, where you’d been curled up against the far wall of the room. There’s water lapping at your heels now. The bathtub’s so filled that it’s overflowed, and Loxias’s just lying like a limp fish over the edge of it.

She looks up at you through her eyelashes. “Thirty percent chance water weight causes floor collapse,” she says, eyes still glowing with psi, and with a curse, you fling yourself at the tub to turn it off.

-- cofaireLeh [CL] is now trolling obstructedAntiquity [OA]! --

CL: hello, helloo, hellooo.

CL: is nananaaa. talked before, lah, you remember?

OA:

OA:

OA: 'cOURSE I FUCKING Do.

OA: tALK LIKE HALF THE AUNTIES ON THE GODDAMN STREET, SISTER, SHIT IS A BLAST OF FRESH AIR IN THIS MEALY-MOUTHED HELL. HOW IS A MOTHERFUCKER MEANT TO FORGET A VOICE LIKE THAt?

OA: a FACE LIKE THAt? ;o)

CL: ew.

OA:

OA: sORRY, SHIT'S A HABIt. :o(

CL: no berak, leh. bad habit! feel bad!

CL: anywayyy. good that remember. iunno if know? daya out.

CL: am in temasek. get lunch, yeah?

OA:

OA: uh.

CL: am meeting friends, lah. woke up, went, ah, ahh, ahhh - do not know daya's friends.

CL: should know friends! am battery, why not?

CL: and friend right in town, lah.

CL: easy fixxx. d:K

OA: sHIT, SISTER, AND YOU THOUGHT OF ME? I AM FUCKING flattered.

OA:

OA: yEAH, SURE, WHY NOT? A MOTHERFUCKER CAN SPARE SOME TIME FOR LUNCh. :o)

CL: greattt. d:K

CL: see you then!

OA: wAIT, SHIT, WHERE At?

CL: ummm.

CL: iunno! will text. (:K

CL: wait, no leh, you text! you choose! are local, yeah?

OA: uh.

CL: you pick by noon.

CL: bye!

-- cofaireLeh [CL] is no longer trolling obstructedAntiquity [OA]! --

Pick a place, since you're the local, Nanako says, like she ain't the one talking like a common fucking wharfrat.

Still, you figure it's probably a test. Isn't that the way that folks from the IPC just go? Everything's a fucking test, everything's a goddamn trial. There's no common courtesy in the way they act, just chances to prove yourself worth their time or not. Even Vadaya pulls that shit.

And Nanako, you're starting to think, is just one of the same.

How many times have you seen Vadaya's battery? Ain't like the two of you have ever been that flavour of close. But it'd make sense, with the way she acts and the way she bites. Nah, this is a trial to see if you'll haul her to hawker food or the real shit, and that's why you've purchased an actual fucking reservation at the Kā Kā Lah. It’s the sort of place a Scimitar ought to appreciate, you think.

Least, up until she walks in the door, takes one look, and wrinkles her nose.

Girl’s covered from head to toe in fabric, with a cowlneck that cuts low just to reveal black leather, and a hood that hangs heavy over her face. With the red on her clothes, she could pass as any fucking fleet member - but you know it’s her, because it’s impossible to miss those goddamn horns, the same spiraling mess from your dream. You’d thought she might grow into ‘em, but nah. Now they’re a foot and a half long, if not over fucking two, and it’s only the fact she’s small-framed that keeps her from slamming them straight into the doorframe. As is, she still keeps her head angled low as she makes her way towards your table. When she slouches into the chair, it’s only then that she lifts her head.

The scars have healed well over the sweeps. Pink swirls across her face and under the bright red of her eyes, and psi-eye or not, there’s something uncanny about seeing the Empire’s own colour shining out of a troll.

But the Scimitars are the Empire’s hand on the planet. It makes sense.

“Ka Ka Leh?” she says, dubious. “Really lah?”

More sense than the idea of her wanting to talk to you, just out of the goddamn blue.

“Uh.” You do not sink down in your chair, but you’re tempted. It hadn’t struck you, really, until she went and sat down, but - shit, she’s Sunyah’s age, older than any of you all by fucking half. “They got the best noodles in town, sister,” you say, slow. “Why, ain’t anybody worth comparing.”

Maybe she hasn’t figured out you’re the same troll yet. Maybe she’s just waiting -

- then she leans forward, snatches hold of your ears in one hand and drags you in by the two of ‘em.

“Why you in my dreams?” she demands. “Not cute! Not welcome! Rude!”

This close, her face's a scarce inch from yours. She's not pretty, not really. Girl's got a beak the size of the Empress's horns, and the sort of fangs that'd gore a fucker for trying. But there's something a little charming about the way she's scowling at you.

And familiar.

"Aw, sister," you purr, even as your pan squalls, because you’re about to fucking die, "what, your legs tired? 'cause here you are, castin' around some fucking accusations, but way I see it, you were the one walkin' through my dreams all damn day -"

She cracks you right across the face.

It's a casual little thing, more noise than pain, and that's the worst bit of it all. There's nothing personal about it. Motherfucker smacks you like she's tapping her lusus on the ass, perfunctory as fuck, and when you splutter, indignant, she just clicks her tongue at you.

"Nah lah, no jokes," she scolds you. "Gross! Pupa! Look like robbing school creche? No lah, do not, behave!"

"I am behavin --"

"You are not! Be serious! What you thinking? Cannot just go, eh, am bored, will go through dreams! Go through military dreams!” She shakes her head, hard enough that her hair catches on your nose. "Rude! This because clowns? Clowns no good for morals! No can do voodoos for fun!"

"Sister -"

"Stop. Am talking," she barks, and holy fucking shit.

Vadaya’s so relaxed. Have you ever seen your cousin with anything less than the utmost of chill? But you’re starting to see why, when his batterymate’s like this. You’d thought him a doormat once. Now, it’s setting in that thought was just some base-ass cruelty.

After all, there’s a difference between being a doormat, and getting stomped into the ground. How the fuck are you supposed to respond to this? What are you even supposed to do with this, save show your throat and pray for mercy? You’ve maligned your poor cousin, but now, you can see where he’s got it all from.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and she lets go of your ears. You sink back in your chair so fast that your knees practically hit the table, then clear your throat, ‘cause she’s watching you, and you know what that shit means. “For gettin’ all up in your dreams. Shit was unintentional. Sister of mine said she’d show me how it was done, just for a lark - didn’t realise it was going to end up with you.”

She leans back in her chair, settling her hands on the table in front of you. She’s got the same metal digits as Vadaya, the amplifiers gleaming under the lights. “And?” she prompts.

Turns out you don’t know shit at all. You’d been scrubbing at the tips of your ears, but now you pause.

Nanako sighs.

“And sorry went in any dreams,” she scolds you. “Without permission, liao, is wrong, wrong, wrong - cannot go foraging in pans for, eh, what, funsies? Is wrong. Is horrible. What if clown, yeah, and you do that? What if sergeant? Lady? Would not worry about ears. They’d take ears.”

You let go of your ears entirely. “Uh -”

“No respond! Just stop. Listen.” She clicks her fangs at you. “And think. Am nice, because Daya friend. Others, no. Don’t do it again. Now respond. Say it.”

“I,” you say, hesitant, “won’t do it again?”

“And sorry,” she says.

“And I’m sorry.”

She nods, brisk. Then she starts undoing the clasps on her hood, where they’re looped in tight around her horns. When she pushes back the hood, her hair’s stark white underneath, with gray roots still setting in up top. Girl’s not pretty. Not even handsome, really, but you’ll give it to her: she’s striking.

And terrifying.

When she looks at you, her eyes still lit with psi, you decide: mostly terrifying.

“Then it’s settled. You clown, lah? Half-paint? Navigressor? Tell me about religion,” she orders, and waves the waiter over. “And you. How you meet Daya, leh? How old are you? Why so much purple?”