#it's funny how often this happens. like someone will disappear for several months from everywhere

[toskarin]

a relief: mutual you thought might have died has apparently been faving increasingly baroque hentai on pixiv as of late, so they're probably just Going Through It

[kkysolo]

Stuck on You / Chapter One

You curse him for it, sometimes. Loathe him for it - for how he’s made you, his parents, his friends feel. How he’s broken them. Reduced all of you to nothing but fickle fragments that pass through time and space with little awareness, with little recognition, of what’s happening to them. At least, that’s how you feel. But the bitterness, the fury - it doesn’t last long. It never does.

Prologue 

Pairing: Ben Solo|Kylo Ren/Reader Setting: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, dystopia, modern, gangs. Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, war, gang violence, emotional hurt/angst, codependent relationships (eventual fluff, smut, romance).

A/N: Tense change from past to present because we’re shifting into the present timeline of the story. Also, if you’ve read any of my other work, you’ll know I tend to write in second person omniscient. I love a bit of head-hopping, keeps us on our toes, lol. It won’t appear in this chapter, but bear it in mind for the future. 

Chapter under the cut, and also here, on AO3. 

Summary: The year is 2084.

Despite its advances, society has collapsed on itself. The world is crooked, damaged, dying. Rezoned into new territories, separating the elite from the unworthy. Civilization is crumbling at your very feet, and in the midst of it all, your best friend, Ben Solo, has been missing for three years. You desperately cling to what’s left of him, hoping that he’ll come home, praying that things will fall back into place.

And then he does. And they don’t. Because life is different when you’re a scoundrel in the midst of a class war.

Now: 2084, Spring 

You’ve always hated spring. 

They used to call it the season of new beginnings, and new beginnings were good. But that was before. Now, starting over is nothing more than an expected, quotidian task each time the Empire rezones the land. Which is often. Too often to ever feel at home. Too often to ever really feel as though there’s a new beginning to be had. 

“It was the right thing to do, you know,” Rose smiles sympathetically in that way that she does, the kind of way that doesn’t make you feel pitied, but loved.  “Hm?” “Breaking up with Jon.”  “Oh,” you hadn’t actually given the situation much thought. He’d already retreated the back of your mind, an unimportant speck among an ocean of stress. “Yeah, I know.”  “Because you didn’t love him.” “I know.” “Because you love Ben.” “Rose,” you hiss, your head flying around the dimly lit room. Because that’s all it is, really - a room. They’d outlawed bars (at least, in the rezoned areas) six months ago. Your shabby little makeshift basement bar - ran by Ben’s mother, nonetheless - was an illegal, yet necessary sanctuary. “Would you stop? Someone will hear.” 

“Oh, stop,” she scoffs, taking a sip of highly illegal (and cherished) gin and lemonade. “As if everyone here doesn’t already know.”

“Well it doesn’t matter now, does it?” you mumble, twirling a bottle of beer between your hands. It’s a good one, not badly brewed and watered down. Leia, she gets the good stuff. How she gets it, you aren’t sure. “It’s not like he’s around.”  “He’s not dead,” Rose affirms. “He can’t be.” “What makes you say that?”

Because you believe it, too, you do. He can’t be dead - couldn’t possibly be gone. Because Ben, he’s strong. He’s good and he’s kind and he’s funny and brave and men like him don’t just die unknowingly. Men like him go down in glory - of that, you’re sure. 

“Because it’s Ben,” she shrugs. “He’s supposed to be running this place one day.” 

You nod, still dragging your bottle across the uneven wood of the table. 

“It’ll be awkward, though,” you sigh. “With Jon.” “You think so?” “I mean, yeah,” you lean back in your seat. “He’s still with the Resistance, I’m gonna have to see him all the time.” “Yeah, I mean, maybe missions will be awkward but,” she shrugs. “He’s not an idiot, surely he knows to, you know. Stay away.” 

You hum in agreement, taking a swig from your bottle. Ben would like this beer, you think. It’s bitter, like he likes. 

“Sweetheart,” Leia is behind you now, a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Could I ask a favour?” “Of course.” “Could you watch the place for me tonight?” She has that apologetic expression on her face she so often bears, and it pains you to think of her worrying to ask you something. “Han is home from his mission tonight, and I’d just love to see him, honey.”  “Leia, of course,” you place your hand atop hers. “You deserve all the time together you can get.”

And they do. They’d separated for several months after Ben’s disappearance, neither of them able to cope with the weight of it in a manner that allowed them any semblance of intimacy, any notion of peace. But they’d rekindled as much as they could of their relationship, and despite Han’s long missions, continued to work on it. 

“Thank you, honey,” she smiles softly, squeezing your hand before turning to a demanding patron. She gives so much of herself to so many people, you wonder how there’s any of her left. 

When Leia finally bids you farewell, you’re already shuffling around behind the badly crafted bar, held together precariously by planks and rusted nails. You’re not sure who built it - though you expect it may have been Poe - but you’re surprised it’s still standing after only one week of use. You pull another bottle of gin from a box on the concrete floor, and you scoff at the icy feel of it. The wicked cold from the exposed ground has kept it remarkably cool. You hope you’ll be able to shut the refrigerator off, in that case. It’s far too expensive to run. 

“Here,” you pour Rose another glass. She sits at the bar now, resting her chin in her palm. “Perk up a little, you’ve gotta keep me company.” 

Rose sticks her tongue out playfully. 

“Did you get settled in your new place?” She speaks into her glass and the sound of her voice vibrates through the liquid.

“Mhm,” You sigh, pouring a drink for yourself. It’s your second move of the year already - the Empire having pushed you out of every zone you’ve ever called home. When they come, ships and tie-fighters blackening the sky above you, you’re herded like goats to whatever new (and smaller) zone they deem suitable for nuisances such as you. For peasants such as you. “You?”

“Meh,” she shrugs. “I wish they kept me with you this time. I hate being by myself.” “Me too,” you murmur. And you do. You really do. “But it is what it is.” 

You glance to your left, eyeing the stacks upon stacks of boxes that pile up against the wall. All labelled ‘bottles’, ‘glasses’, ‘coasters’ in Finn’s terrible handwriting. There’s one that sits at the bottom, labelled only ‘our stuff’. Back in the old bar - the real bar - you’d had CD players (the old kind, from decades ago - you couldn’t afford anything else). You’d had string lights and flowers and Sabacc tables. You’d decorated the walls with photos - of you, of Ben, of the resistance. Of the people who owned and worked at the only establishment for fucking miles that conceived any happiness. And it was beautiful. It was perfect. 

“When’s Poe back?” Rose hums.  “I think he’s coming back with Han tonight,” She takes a sip of her drink. “Why?” “I really wish he’d move those fuckin’ boxes,” you grit. “Hide them in the back or something, but I can’t stand the sight of them.” 

Rose nods sympathetically. 

“He will,” She turns, then, as the sound of rain pummels against the ground outside. Though it’s a basement, there’s still windows, the kind that sit more toward the ceiling, the kind that are awfully awkward to open. She squints at them, and your eyes catch how she leans closer to get a better look. 

“You alright?” You lean toward her, resting your elbows against the bar. You can hear how it creaks with the pressure.  “Y-yeah I just,” she drags her eyes away, bringing her attention back to you. “I just thought I saw someone outside.”  “There’s lots of people outside,” you smile. “There always is.”  “No, I know, but they were like…” She looks back to the window. “They were crouching, looking in.” 

You sigh.

“Hopefully not an inspector for the Empire,” Rose turns back to you as you speak, and you smirk at her reassuringly. “That Armitage Hux prick has always had it out for me.” 

She laughs in that airy kind of way that she does, the kind of way that makes you bubble with gratitude - because you know her. You’re fortuitous enough, privileged enough to be around such a light, such an ethereal soul. You often wonder what you ever would have done without her. You often wonder if you’d have survived it - survived this, survived the loss of him, without her. 

“Maybe if you wouldn’t rile him up, he wouldn’t hate you so much.” “But it’s just so much fun to piss him off,” You grin. “He gets so flustered.” 

You stay like that, laughing together, until well after midnight. You’re glad for it, the distraction. You need it, even now. Even after all this time. Being alone - with your thoughts, with the gaping hole that sits inside your chest - doesn’t get any easier. They say time heals all wounds. You wish it would. It’s only made yours worse, only further infected it with spores of him, that burst and spread the ache right down into your bones. You curse him for it, sometimes. Loathe him for it - for how he’s made you, his parents, his friends feel. How he’s broken them. Reduced all of you to nothing but fickle fragments that pass through time and space with little awareness, with little recognition, of what’s happening to them. At least, that’s how you feel. But the bitterness, the fury - it doesn’t last long. It never does. 

When you trudge inside your new apartment (though new doesn’t seem very apt, perhaps crumbling would fit better), you feel him. He’s never been there, of course, but you feel him nonetheless. You feel him everywhere. In everything. And it haunts you - he haunts you. And he has no right to, because you know he’s not dead, he can’t be. 

You run through your nightly routine, finally readying yourself for slumber. You hope you’ll see him there, when you close your eyes and drift from hell into harmony. You hope you’ll find him nestled in the crevices of your subconscious. Because you know he’s there. He’s always there. And when you unlock your front door, when you prop open the windows before crawling under the sheets - you hope he’ll find you here, too. Nestled under the covers, waiting for him. 

And when you fall into deep sleep, into a dream - or a memory - of long ago, a dream of smiles and laughter and his honey-brown eyes, you don’t hear the door as it creaks and clicks open. You don’t hear the windows as they fall shut, the frigid breeze no longer assaulting the room. You don’t hear the footsteps, nor do you hear the breathing - panicked, rushed. 

When you’re asleep, you find him. And when you’re asleep, he finds you.

[thescispot]

I had difficulty recognizing C when she arrived.

We had agreed to meet at the on-campus burger joint and I was early. Sitting in a booth in the corner, I finished up some statistics homework as well as the last of my coffee, and although I expected C at any moment, I was nevertheless startled when she peered over my shoulder, an enthusiastic grin painted on her face.

“Hi!” she chirped cheerfully, wrapping an arm around me. I returned the hug hesitantly, partly because I was in the awkward position of sitting while she was standing, but also because it had not yet registered to me that this was, in fact, C - the very person I had been waiting for.

She slid into the seat across from me and we launched immediately into comfortable conversation, exchanging pleasant greetings, and speaking to one another with a familiar ease I had not expected. We might as well have been meeting up after two weeks, when in actuality, it was nearly two years since we last spoke.

She was wearing a sunny yellow top and had her hair tied up sloppily on top of her head, revealing a pale face with large, doe eyes and a friendly disposition. I entertained the idea that her lack of makeup was what caught me off guard and explained my difficulty in immediately recognizing her but I quickly dismissed this theory as absurd; we had once been living together, after all, so her bare face could not feasibly be considered an unfamiliar sight for me.

She apologized profusely for her inability to meet up with me for the interview on two previous occasions and I assured her it was not a problem. We lamented the difficulties of school life, such as busy schedules, relentless deadlines, and the general fatigue that accompanies the Sisyphean struggle of adulthood. She complained about how much time her job took out of her day. I complained about how the lack of a job left too much time in mine. We both agreed that we could not decide if we were grateful for the looming shadow of graduation on the horizon or not; did it promise much-needed reprieve or threaten even greater distress?

I remembered when C and I had first met, moving into our dorm in late September four years ago. After a few lazy and unsuccessful attempts at unpacking, the two of us decided to seek out cold drinks at the neighboring dormitory building, Lothian, in a desperate attempt for relief from the encroaching heat. To our chagrin, we were hopelessly lost within a matter of minutes and were left wandering in circles around the campus, the sun attacking us the whole while as if driven by a personal vendetta. The two of us trudging across the fields, full of regret, must have been a funny sight, only exacerbated by the fact that we looked to be complete opposites of one another; she pale and I tan, she short and I tall, her hair a sleek curtain that brushed her shoulders, mine waist-length and frizzy. I was average-sized but she was very, very thin.

“When did it start?”

I finally worked up the courage to begin the interview. I felt I was being invasive despite her insistence that she was perfectly happy helping me with my assignment. We had spoken about this subject many times before, but something about the academic lens I was peering through felt disrespectful somehow. Almost alienating.

“In hindsight,” she said thoughtfully, “it started when I was fifteen years old. I . . . stopped finishing my dinner.”

C claimed she had always had a large appetite growing up, that she always cleaned her plate. But as her sophomore year of highschool approached, she had fallen into an insidious routine - she made sure to always leave a little bit of food behind, to never completely finish a meal. An innocent enough habit, or so she thought at the time.

“It spiralled out of control from there?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

C nodded. She related her actions from that time in her life the way one might analyze the motives and psyche of a fictional character, like she was discussing the mental health of someone else. She had a great deal to say, but her voice and manner did not betray even the slightest hint of anguish at being reminded of her troubled past.

“The eating disorder takes control of everything it can,” she said wisely.

Anorexia, in C’s experience, was not something she felt she was “suffering” from as she underwent its horrors. She was not punishing herself by not eating, it was quite the opposite. Not eating made her feel better. Invincible, even.

“I felt superhuman,” she explained. “I felt like I was honing a skill and it made me feel good about myself, that I could go to school and handle all these things in my life without needing food. It was an accomplishment.” She paused for a moment. “Really says a lot about how our culture conditions teenage girls, huh?”

We both sighed with tacit understanding.

“What if you ate more than you intended?” I asked. I tried to hide my discomfort about the whole conversation. I felt like I was trying to play the part of a therapist and it would be painfully obvious to any third party that I was woefully unprepared to do so.

“Then it was a bad day,” she said. “I felt like I failed.”

I suddenly recalled something she had mentioned often back when we lived together. She never went into great detail, and had a way of minimizing the despair this subject caused her. But it was clear to me, and probably our other hallmates as well, that her illness was not a result of merely deciding to eat less one day. It was obvious since that night she watched a music video entitled “Till it Happens to You”, drank copious amounts of vodka, and promptly had an emotional meltdown that something more significant triggered her eating disorder.

“What about your boyfriend?” I asked. “Would you say he was the cause of all this?”

“He was definitely a factor,” C replied hesitantly. “ He was older than me and the relationship was kind of, like, secret, you know? My parents didn’t approve. He would always tell me ‘fat girls are so ugly.’ And I wanted to be pretty for him, you know?”

We were both silent for a while, trying to process how something as simple as the desire to impress a boy could derail one’s adolescence so disastrously.

“One time I called myself fat and he said ‘No, babe, you’re so pretty - I could eat cereal out of your collar bones.’” C seemed embarrassed by how much pride she had once taken out of this disturbing remark.

“He wasn’t the source,” she chose her words carefully. “But he was definitely . . . the spark.” She fell quiet and I decided this avenue of conversation had extinguished itself.

“So when did people notice?”

“We were moving,” she explained, “and my parents noticed the self-harm scars I had running up my legs. They put me in therapy for a while. Eventually, I told the therapist I was, you know, done. Just done. I told her I was going to swallow a bottle of pills that night. I thanked her for trying to help but I was just over it. I was resigned about the whole thing, didn’t have any strong feelings about it one way or the other. ”

C was immediately taken to the emergency room following this therapy session. At this point in her life, she described herself as having skeletal shoulders and no stomach. She had taken to loose, baggy clothes and was especially partial to sweatshirts, even in the summertime. She only weighed eighty seven pounds.

“And the therapist didn't notice?” I asked dubiously.

“She had her suspicions, I’m sure,” C said. “But she admitted to me later that she felt unqualified to handle the severity of my condition.”

I balked at the idea that no one would see their own daughter, sister, friend, disappear steadily in front of their eyes.

“There was one person,” C remembered suddenly. When she was fifteen years old, a classmate she never spoke to slipped a book onto her desk, a book about eating disorders. Inside the book was a note, encouraging her to seek help.

“I was offended at the time. I didn’t think anything was wrong with me.”

“You were in denial.”

C reached into her bag and fished around inside for her wallet. She slipped out a piece of paper but did not offer it to me. My gaze only captured the name “Lauren” scrawled at the bottom in feminine script.

“I keep the note with me everywhere I go now,” she said soberly.

C was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and major depression, as well as obsessive compulsive tendencies in regards to her weight. She was in the hospital for a miserable two months, which she described as being like “solitary confinement.”

She believes attending “Program” saved her life.

“It finally started to make sense to me that I was sick,” C said, sounding more upbeat. “The eating disorder, it distorts a person’s thinking. I was finally educated on my condition and realized it wasn’t my fault.” Learning the science behind “ it”changed her perspective.

She happily relayed to me the structure of Program, and how she felt it helped her the most during her recovery. It was an outpatient program and she was given a meal plan as well as access to therapy for her and the people in her life. “Family night was on Tuesday,” she noted. I didn’t have to ask her to elaborate.

“My mother could be . . . unforgiving of imperfection,” she looked at me searchingly, trying to make sure she had used the right words.

“Did you feel ashamed of your condition?”

“Oh yeah, big time,” she said. “I felt like I was a burden for my family.”

C recalled how she began forcing herself to eat in an effort to gain weight as soon as possible; the hospital and subsequent program, she decided, were costing her family too much money and now that she knew what was wrong with her, why not just, you know, stop?

She threw up many times as her body was not yet adjusted, not yet ready to let go of its trauma. There were two separate occasions where her nasogastric tube was displaced as a result, an experience she implied was excruciating. An especially compassionate nurse was the one to hold and comfort her during the ensuing mental breakdowns.

“The disease pulled my family together,” C claimed. Her relationship with her mother improved significantly. Guilt was something they all had to confront.

“It was hard, but it was worth it,” C said with a smile.

According to C, stigma against mental illness was a huge factor in the initial conflict with her parents. Their words likely echo in the minds of every mentally unhealthy child of color who has made the mistake of displaying such a vulnerability:

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

C insists now that both she and her parents understand that it was the eating disorder that did this to her.

Program was run by a man named Dr. Marr, a leading researcher in eating disorders and mental health among youth, and it  took place in Rancho Cucamonga. I noted how strange it was to realize that while I was learning precalculus and writing essays on Shakespeare, a girl I would one day live with was recovering practically next door, missing out on such a formative part of her life.

C and I both reached the conclusion that while the hospital helped her physically get her weight back up, all the emotional work was done in Program.

“I grew up a lot,” she said and then added, uncertainly, “I feel indebted to it, you know? It let me see parts of myself I didn’t before. I’m stronger now and I can endure so much more. Like if I could make it through this, I could make it through an algebra test.”

“And what about your identity? Did your mental illness impact your conception of yourself?”

She thought about this for a great deal of time. “Who I was and who I was meant to be...are intact. I’m sensitive, blunt, empathetic, loud, funny, I’m so many things. The eating disorder tried but it could not warp the core of who I am.”

Recovery, C believes, is all about accepting yourself.

“This is something that’s always going to be at the back of my mind,” she explained. “It’s chronic; but I’m getting better. It’s going to get better. I know it is.”

The conversation drifted. We discussed school life, working, friends, etc. She told me about her boyfriend, Ian, and how happy he makes her. I reminded her how the two of them fell asleep while video-chatting with one another one day during freshman year. She told me about an infuriating roommate she had had to deal with the previous winter. I told her about a fight I’d had with my former best friend. She told me about her cat and I told her about my dog. She told me about the time a customer pulled a gun out at her job. I told her why I quit mine. A meetup I expected to take no more than thirty minutes managed to eat up five hours.

Finally, I thanked her for her help and willingness to share with me for my assignment.

“No problem,” she shrugged. “I’m spreading awareness, you know? I’m kind of like, the best case scenario.” She laughed and I agreed. We said our goodbyes.

I was halfway home when it finally occurred to me why I couldn’t recognize her earlier. It wasn’t a haircut, or a new wardrobe, or the lack of makeup that changed C’s appearance in the last two years.

It was the fact that she had, to my utter delight, put on quite a bit of weight since we last met.

[bonesandpoemsandflowers]

So here’s a thing that happened, tumblr.

Many moons ago, I was in the Neuro ICU for a while. I was actually in there twice--for a week at first, then out, then in again for about two weeks. In between: “Nothing’s wrong! It’s resolved!” As you might imagine, given the spoiler there about how I went to the Neuro ICU twice: in fact, Something was wrong, and it was not resolved (then).

(it is resolved now, thank you)

This post is not actually ABOUT that, but we must start there, out of order.

This is a post about art and rivers and boys in cars. But we start in the Neuro ICU.

I don’t like talking about this time in my life. I would have been skittish and mysterious ANYWAY--I was raised like that--but I’m extra skittish and vague about my timeline because I don’t want to talk about it, you know? I survived something I had no business surviving. I had to relearn how to walk. That took months and that was the easy part. Because I am a big tiddy goth girl, and because I was very young then, people love to assume that the problem was drugs, and I did it to myself, as if that somehow makes anything less tragic.

I was 23 years old with a brain bleed due to a congenital defect, and even at the time, I had to defend myself: no, I’m not on drugs, I don’t do drugs, I didn’t do coke, I’ve never done coke.

I am also Colombian, which, I suppose, might play into their calculus about the coke, but WHO KNOWS. I was busy gibbering and almost dying at the time, which left little energy for noticing potential microaggressions.

Is it a microaggression, I guess, when you’re dying? Who knows.

I have never even been drunk, tumblr. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t snort. I never have. This is mostly because I’m a paranoid loon with an off again, on again anorexia, ya know, thing, so occasionally I get really hung up on irrational concepts of bodily purity. People think it’s a flex when I try to explain this, that I’m relishing in some kind of moral superiority. I’m not. I admitting to SEVERAL defects (“quirks”) of personality there. The eating disorder. The deep distrust: I will not be vulnerable in the presence of others, I will not dull my senses, I will not allow myself to be weak. A certain perfectionism. A certain tendency towards slow burn self harm. Grand ideas made of nothing that sometimes take hold.

My point is that this big disruptive thing happened.

I survived, which is AWESOME. And yeah, I had to relearn how to walk, and some other things, but you guys know that I do yoga and aerial silks and lyra and ran off to Thailand to train kickboxing for a summer on fighter street and I STILL do not shut the fuck up about it.

So, cool, cool cool cool cool.

And I don’t even want to talk about that part, the medical drama, the body horror, the institutional whatever. My neurosurgeon was fantastic and like a week after my discharge I was high as SHIT on prescribed painkillers my caregivers insisted I take and wrote him a gushing effusive letter about how he was MY HERO because I was ALIVE and anyway that basically makes you BATMAN, DOCTOR LEWIS, I FUCKING LOVE BATMAN.

Again: high as fuck, ok.

 My point is: I hate talking about this.

Because once you’re a survivor in people’s minds, that’s all you are. You are reduced to this one event that had very little to do with you. You are defined by this thing that happened to you.

And this isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s happened TO me! But still. Happened TO me. Not something I did. Not my action. Barely even my reaction.

But again, personality flaws. What does it say about me that I look at social norms about comfort and inwardly I snarl that I want no one’s pity?

Except I’m not actually that mean. I don’t snarl.

I just withdraw.

This is a tactic that has served me well in life a BUNCH of times. Is it always the answer? No. Is it often worth a shot? Listen. Yeah. Yeah, it is. Sometimes you flee an abusive home life because that’s the only option, and you don’t want to die. Hypothetically speaking: sometimes all you can do is run.

But sometimes you flee people with mostly good intentions, maybe.

This is all very high minded but what’s prompting me to write this isn’t exactly the upcoming (many year) anniversary of the event. It’s something way more mundane and dumb.

I have not logged into my facebook account since this happened. I never bothered deleting the account(s), either. I presume they still exist. I have no idea HOW to log back onto them, and, more importantly, no desire.

“So what?”

So, okay, back when I had my first stint in the Neuro ICU? Like, totally out of nowhere, I just disappeared from people’s feeds. (you all know I do this) Somehow part of the story got out and SOMEHOW, I have no idea how, a small group of my friends managed to independently track down the hospital I was at. And this is on next to no info, across state lines, like--I have no idea how the fuck they did it.

I also don’t fucking know who they were.

I was told, at the time. I have a vague idea of who two out of (I think) four were, or might have been. I was kind of busy at the time, with the dying.

And when I say I don’t like talking about this time: I don’t like even THINKING about it. I avoid it.

Fleeing. See?

So I don’t have a memory of the names. I don’t have memories of the memory.

“So what?”

So, I know from groups other than this one, groups less dedicated than this one, that people actually get REALLY fucking mad at you for not accepting their get better soon wishes. And like, I get it! You were very worried and I did nothing to reassure you.

I WAS BUSY.

I was busy dying. Almost dying. Not dying. I was busy sleeping 20 hrs a day. I was busy being unable to walk. I was busy re-learning to walk. I was busy relearning how to write with pen and paper and for months I COULD NOT DO IT, do you have any idea how that feels to someone who is and has always been and has always wanted to be a writer? Fuck it. Fuck you.

The initial disappearance. I am not to blame.

But then doing nothing to reach out to anybody for YEARS and YEARS--

Okay, maybe a dick move on my part.

“So what?”

So I think one of the people who managed to track me down in the hospital was my best friend from high school, a terribly sweet Brazilian boy who mostly called me not by my name, but simply: The Devil.

I dig it. Always did.

And it’s high school, right. Everybody is thirsty as fuck for their friends, one way or another. We never dated--we were both always dating or pursuing other people--but we had the typical high school bestie unresolved romantic tension deal going on.

This is important so remember it for later: the problem was not attraction. The problem was not one sided unresolved sexual tension. I had a particular thing for how he looked while driving, shades on, one arm slung over the wheel in that terribly and typically male lounging driving pose that’s probably a safety hazard.

We spent a lot of time in his car.

I didn’t drive, at the time, because my mother didn’t allow me to learn, and I got kicked out of my house and disowned when I was 17. This dude spent a LOT of time driving me places. Boys in cars is practically a genre of erotic poetry, thanks to Richard Siken. This is because boys look Cool driving cars, wearing sunglasses, pretending they’re not paying attention to you while you know they are.

So he was fun.

More importantly, I guess, the fact that he picked my ass up at like 6 AM over and over and over again for a big chunk of my senior year is one of the few reasons I managed to graduate despite being technically homeless.

He was not a morning person. I am not a morning person. He did it anyway.

Why didn’t we date, I wondered, years later, for a fraction of a second, and then I forgot about it.

“SO WHAT?!”

So I’m grown up and happy and fulfilled and in a lovely long term relationship (remember! we’re buying a house!), so it’s not about “what if?” It’s that I’m happy and grown up and I write books sometimes.

But there it is.

I write books sometimes.

Artists are constantly stealing ideas from everywhere and this is good. Artists also steal from themselves, grubby little hands on secret parts of our hearts.

So I’m writing this book, right. My Great Work. My Break Out Novel. My SERIOUS FUCKING BUSINESS book. My “this is the thing I’ve worked the hardest on in my whole entire LIFE” book.

And in this book there is a male love interest. He is a political statement. I’m writing him as sexy and heroic as possible. I want this to be the MOST attractive man I’ve ever written.

Latino. Sexy as fuck. Not a criminal. Overly responsible. Action ready, and terribly nurturing.

Hot Single Dad and Reluctant Necromancer is my masterpiece. A passionate statement and stance against the depiction of Latino men in media. A war cry to examine our own subconscious biases. A weapon raised against an unjust system.

I stole parts of him from Frank Castle. I stole parts of him from Geralt. I stole (MANY) parts of him from this one IRL hot dad former Army Ranger guy, Mexican American with a tattoo on his arm of a jack o lantern one of his kids drew. I stole parts of him from this cute Marine in my DMs who gave me story advice about guns and gear. I stole parts of him from indigenous leaders from centuries ago, from the peoples he is descended from. I stole parts of him from every man I’ve met who worked in dog rescue. I stole parts of him from myself, hiding secret parts of my heart in the male character so that no one will know.

Lovely. All good so far.

I got like two whole drafts in before I was thumbing through some printed out pages, idly thinking: how funny that I don’t have any real life, personal to me models for this guy.

All my prior male love interests, you see, are based on someone. In the werewolf trilogy, they’re BOTH based on someone--different someones. The villain, too, is jokingly referred to as the “evil werewolf ex boyfriend” for a reason.

Everybody is someone.

So how funny, I thought, that necromancer hot dad lacks any references from my own--

OH, wait, fuck--

Overly responsible brown dude with sad dog eyes drives the female lead/occult specialist around while good naturedly complaining that she’s weird as shit.

Oh, damn.

And suddenly a bunch of teensy little backstory details made sense.

Cool.

“So what?”

Bonus round of self realization: my own understanding of this time in my life radically shifted, turning, lurching, sickly rotating on a new axis.

Why didn’t we date?

Somewhere between then and now, post ICU but pre novel writing time--

This one time I overheard somebody talking to somebody else and it had nothing to do with me but sight unseen, on the other side of the stacks in a used bookstore, one dude said to another: “you know that if you were lighter, you’d have a chance with her, right?”

How terrible, I thought, and I forgot about it.

Why didn’t we date?

Because my mother told me, when I was very young, that boys from Brazil were all very wild, and I should avoid them. And she told me this so early and so plainly that I never thought to question it. When I was older she took harder stances that I easily ignored because I knew they were wrong--don’t you dare bring a black boy into this house. You’re dating a Jew? I can’t believe you did this to me. What are you going to do next, kiss a girl?

WELL, Ma, as it turns out, I mean, not til college, but yes.

But the smaller, more mild statement was so much more insidious.

I wonder if he knew. I don’t think he did. I wonder if he figured it out later. I have no idea, because we were friends when we were still essentially children, and now we are grown. Not everybody thinks about this kind of thing, and I don’t blame them.

How much damage did I do?

Does it matter?

Does he know?

I know.

I know, now, that my rallying cry against a system’s unfairness is also a cry wrenched wetly from my own subconscious depths. YOUR biases against? Yes. But more accurately: my biases against.

“So what?”

So this kind of epiphany shit leaves you breathless about it and you wanna scream. You wanna SHARE it. You must infect others with this knowledge.

But you can’t out of nowhere foist this apology on someone. That’s selfish. That’s about redeeming yourself in your own eyes AND asking someone else to confront unpleasant emotions on your behalf, even though they’re the wronged party. Selfish. Tell me I’m not a bad person, baby. Tell me I never hurt you, not even a little. Forgive me if I did. Wade through this pile of astral shit for me just to make me feel better. Reassure me. Hurt yourself for me in the here and now.

So I’m not going to do that, obviously.

“So what?”

But there’s that other part of it, right? Not the apology. The surge of emotion. The realization that all those morning drives back then added up to something deep within me, something so foundational to my concept of care and maybe even the start of something like love--the knowledge that this person gently carved some ideals for you, so long ago, so subtly that you never questioned it, never even realized, because it felt so natural, because something about it is so inherently good and right.

Despite everything--despite society, propaganda, colonialism, the prejudice of my upbringing, my own unexamined complicity, ALL of it--

Despite everything, this person taught me something so deeply about love and the shape of it, something so foundational that I built all my art on it and didn’t even see the beams of it until halfway through my most ambitious and soul bearing undertaking.

This is how you care for another, went the lesson, and I wrote pragmatic actions over words romantic male leads all the way down.

This is what love might look like, and in my own life, ever ambitious, I chose a poet talented with words and actions and good fight choreography, because I think that’s sexy and dichotomies are mostly bullshit, or at least things that happen to other people.

But I didn’t learn what love looked like from my childhood home life, obviously. How could I?

Without you, though, without you and your mirror sunglasses at 6 AM and your exasperated teasing, devil, witch, bruja, without any of those, where would I have learned? How long would it take me, to find someone who would teach me a wholesome lesson?

I’m small and cute and predators love a victim with a lack of context. I give myself and my wit some credit, but what’s pattern recognition worth if you never get any good data points?

Deep lessons.

Again: this kind of epiphany makes you wanna scream. Who to infect, with all this new knowledge?

Maybe no one. Probably no one.

But maybe, just a little, you wonder--

How would that conversation even go?

Hey, so I wrote this book--no, it’s my fifth, not my first, but thanks--so I wrote this book, and there’s this character, right, and he’s--well, hahah, I mean, he’s not exactly--I just--funny story, really--no, god, no, you don’t have to read it--it’s just--he’s just--I mean, no, you, you’re just--forget it, actually, just--

Like, what the fuck is there to say?

“I couldn’t have written this without you.”

And

“Did you check on me? When you thought I was dead?”

and

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice, at the time, that I meant anything to you.”

or is it really

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize until now that you meant something to me.”

What to do with all this emotion? Or more accurately--like rivers carve out gorges, here is the shape of something that once was. This shape will always be here. Even without a single drop of water ever again: we see the river.

What to do with the shape of all this emotion?

I consult the great Richard Siken via a feat of bibliomancy. Advise me, O Oracle. The oracle is War of the Foxes (2015), turned over blindly in my hands, opened randomly to The Worm King’s Lullaby, pg 45, verse 1:

The holes in this story are not lamps, they are not wheels. I walked and walked, grew a beard so I could drag it in the dirt, into a forest that wasn’t there. I want to give you more but not everything. You don’t need everything.

This advice is too good. I close the book.

The advice does not tell me what to do, but it’s too good. The verse reaches into my chest and carves out my heart, slices it open. Inside my heart: pomegranate seeds. Tiny jewels, fit for a dragon, snacking on garnets and rubies, and the apple of Eden wasn’t an apple, because it was the desert, wasn’t it? It was a pomegranate. Something with scales, maybe snakes. The serpent, the devil.

What to do with all this love?

I swallow the pomegranate seeds. I buy myself some time. I want to give you more, but not everything. Do you need everything? I don’t know. I don’t have it to give to you, in any case. Does it matter?

Why are you doing this, me?

Because art is messy. Art is cutting yourself open over and over again. You clean up most of the mess, try to bottle the fluids and label them nicely or deliberately misleadingly, fit for someone else’s consumption, but either way, you’re bleeding.

Maybe this urge is bleed with me or maybe it is oh, you already did.

I swallow the seeds. I buy some time.

I’m not done yet. I’m not.

Maybe all this adds up to nothing.

Maybe if I do this right, it adds up to a lot.

Maybe if I do this right it will feel real, maybe what I want is to gift the shape of these rivers to somebody else, all emotionally intimately with strangers. This is a shape that love can be. This is a silhouette you may recognize.

Maybe that’s a tribute, or a tributary.

But it’s not about you, not really, so don’t get too big headed about it. This is about Art and something like Justice. Big things. This is a book about big things, about history and dogs, history and gods, crimes and lies, slaughter and slander.

Right, yeah.

An act of faith, an act of will.

I swallow the pomegranate seeds. I buy myself some time.

It’s not harvest season yet. Not yet, not now, not yet.

If not now, then when?

When it’s ready.

There is no ready. Perfection is an illusion.

Yeah, sure, but page count is REAL.

You’re evading. That’s another word for fleeing. Do you know that?

Yes. I do.

How long will you run?

Just a little bit more. Just a little. I promise.

[thesinglesjukebox]

SOCCER MOMMY - CIRCLE THE DRAIN

[7.73]

Did not Usher in a top score; did yield a lot of writing...

Ian Mathers: There's a mandolin part (or something) peeking through the mix here in places that, combined with the dreamy listlessness of Sophie Allison's lyrics and delivery, is giving me significant pangs of that ol' devil nostalgia for both my past and the music of my past. Sometimes though, you just gotta go with it. [9]

Vikram Joseph: Nostalgia is a hallucinogen; it blurs the distinction between times you miss and times you simply happen to remember more vividly than others, and, more disconcertingly, between places you have been and places that have only ever existed in your internal world. There's something about "Circle The Drain" - with its soft golden hour hues, its fuzzy edges - that drives deep into whichever ganglion or cortex is responsible for nostalgia, and sends uncoordinated sparks and signals across its synapses, triggering a slideshow of fragmented memories that may or may not be memories at all. It reminds me of so many tangible things - the late 90s / early 00s guitar-pop of Natalie Imbruglia and Avril Lavigne, the Smashing Pumpkins' "Today", and (strangest of all) second-tier Brit indie band Feeder's tender teenage stoner anthem "High" - but also of so much that is unreachable and unnameable - walks home from nowhere, composite daydreams from a hundred train windows, summers disintegrating into the building blocks of memory. As if getting older isn't frightening enough, if I have this much capacity for nostalgia at just past 30 won't I be slowly crushed under its weight by 70? But for now, while I can still think of myself as young, I'm grateful for this song - a gorgeous, dreamy downer - and for the synthesis of new memories from the glowing rubble of ones that came before. [9]

Leah Isobel: On my first day of work in the new decade, a customer yelled at me. It wasn't the first time this had happened, and he wasn't actually mad at me; he was hurt by something my boss had done, and I was just in the crosshairs. But what he said - the justified core of his anger - has stuck with me, like an ink I can't wash off my hands. It's followed me all month, keeping me from being present with my friends or honest with my parents or productive at my job. I haven't been able to write about it, either; the helplessness, the horror, the rot I feel in my body. It feels a lot like the sick-sweet guitar decay in this song. [9]

Julian Axelrod: Calling a song "passive" is rarely a complement, but everything about "Circle the Drain" feels detached in the best way. The sample-of-a-sample guitars fade in and out of focus, Sophie Allison's numb sigh is couched in a week's worth of reverb, and her verses frame summer love and self-immolation as equidistant unattainable ideals. It's a song about depression, but it doubles as an interrogation of the "slacker rock" tag bands like Soccer Mommy so often fall under: Is this person stuck on the couch because they're unambitious, or has the mold in their brain turned them to a bedridden husk of their usual chipper self? Everything around Allison is pristinely produced, which makes its passivity all the more pointed. As a great artist once said, "Do you think a depressed person could make this?" [7]

Nortey Dowuona: A nice, twee song about being sad. That's it. that's the tweet. [9]

Katherine St Asaph: I cannot pinpoint, and it's bugging me, what specific maybe-obvious riff this is biting. (My ears hear something like Kay Hanley's Cherry Marmalade, and the duh answer is probably like Nirvana, but I think part of it is, of all things, Incubus's "Drive"?) But I've listened to enough '90s college-rock filler to recognize a clear improvement on it. [7]

Alfred Soto: Nailing the early nineties college rock churn 'n' jangle as surely as "Lucy" did last year, "Circle the Drain" flirts more closely -- more ominously -- with the churn 'n' jangle that crossed over several years later: think Shawn Colvin, not Belly. Listeners may dig this direction. I say Soccer Mommy gets blanded out. [6]

Thomas Inskeep: Is that a banjo? Well, that's unexpected. The guitar-plugged-into-a-sole-amp and ramshackle '90s-Beck-ish drums, those are expected. But you can definitely hear the increased production budget on this, and I'm not 100% it's for the better. [6]

Brad Shoup: The dream of Adult Alternative is alive and well and uncanny. The idea of daubing one's emotional grayness into the short shadows of a deceptively summery pop rocker... I wasn't sure that was a move anymore. [7]

Joshua Copperman: This doesn't sound like a 90s radio hit, this sounds like 90s album filler. Okay, that's a bit much. It sounds like it was there, but then someone at Loma Vista said 'it's 2020, music has been functional background noise for like four years now, take out everything interesting except for the delay spin in the second verse and the nifty tape flutter effect around four minutes in, don't distract anyone'. There's a synth pad at 1:15 that disappears by 1:20. The actual song is pretty great - I especially love the imagery of walking on a cable, depression being so debilitating that doing anything has the stakes of conducting the electric city. The top comment on eight-minute advance single "Yellow is the Color of Her Eyes" currently reads "If she went far enough, I think she would meet Chris Martin at the beach." For "Circle The Drain," I wish she did. [6]

Michael Hong: Bubbly and burbly, "Circle the Drain" sounds exactly like that, a spinning whirlpool. Where Clean was blurred by the surrounding ennui of being a teenager with a crush, "Circle the Drain" marks a clear progression in Soccer Mommy's sound, sounding more expansive and vibrant. You feel it in the twang of the looping guitar melody and in the shuffle of the backing beat. The background noise of Clean is washed away, reduced to a low fuzzy din and Soccer Mommy's voice comes with reassuring elegance that suggests while you can fall apart in the spiral, there's comfort to come when it does eventually end. [9]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: I hate the game my mind plays with regards to my depression being "legitimate" enough. If things are OK and I don't feel depressed: Great, but was I just dumb and emotional this whole time and my depression not actually real? When things are OK and I feel depressed: Not great, but at least I know my depression is... real? I don't know. That I have such thoughts is an upsetting thing in and of itself, and the plainness with which Soccer Mommy talks about not wanting to remain strong for family and friends is a reminder of how debilitating life can be. That others feel that way makes me feel less alone. "Circle the Drain" is a song about being stuck, of being "chained" to your bed (please help me if I'm "napping" all the time). There's a quiet appeal--a slacker glamour--that this song exudes, that captures the allure and sickness and banality of depression in the everyday. [8]

Will Adams: The chorus is curious; the bridge sets up a clear launch, but at the cathartic moment the production falls away, to the point it feels like we're getting a second verse. It's not until the titular thinking appears ("round and around") that the arrangement comes back into focus. It's a neat trick. One that wears thin by the third time, but who am I to argue with a song that wraps me in the nostalgic comfort of Orange County radio and Daria commercial bumpers like this. [8]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Soccer Mommy's best songs capture the clarity of feeling like shit like no other artist's do. It's a hard feeling, the way that being lost and beaten-down create not any kind of moral righteousness but a shocking awareness. It's everywhere on "Circle the Drain," from the crunch of the intro guitars and the tinniness of the drum machine on the bridge to Allison's vocal performance, which sounds at once both immediate and far away. But it's there most in her songwriting, which Gabe Wax's production only intensifies. The way that the second verse breaks from the figurative language of the first into stark, morbidly funny descriptions of mental illness and decay is arresting, and the way the song pushes through it, almost making the final choruses sound triumphant, is even more so. [8]

Alex Clifton: "Circle the Drain" is a story of depression set to the warmest guitars I've heard this side of the nineties. It's a beautifully neat trick to pull and Soccer Mommy here does so with aplomb--both aspects kept reeling me back in for second and third listens. Although the lyrics are sad, the feeling is ultimately uplifting. It's okay if you are falling to pieces. A song like this will catch you. [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[angstymarshmallow]

Simply Between Us Part 7 (Thomas Hunt x MC)

[A little note: wow am I going to actually finish another series? Kudos to you guys and my imagination for keeping me going :D. Here’s part 7!]

[Words counted: 2825]

There’s a moment when Tatum thinks she’s forgotten how to breathe. A moment when she’s convinced her lungs aren’t getting enough oxygen to keep them from collapsing. Her brain still works all the same. It still wrestles with her own thoughts as frustrated and panicked as they are; images that become all jumbled together at just the sight of her still standing several inches away. Her heart is still trying to pump iron through her bloodstream, but her breath – it isn’t gone. It’s merely lodged in her throat, unyielded despite her desperate attempt to breathe.

Her fingers on the knob tightens until her skin turns a shade lighter. It’s pale enough to almost blend in with the colour of cement.

If the taller woman notices, she offers no incentive. Instead, her smile becomes rather tight and her eyes seem bemused as they peer down at her. They’re smirking at her as if to say, well aren’t you going to invite me in?

“Priya,” Tatum finally manages to speak, and forces a smile on her lips. It’s a small one, but it is something.

The air around them is almost palpable with tension as she clears her throat. “How…lovely it is to see you.” She must admit, even to herself the words sound wrong somehow. “And what a surprise.”

Priya’s smile drops a fraction. “A good surprise.” A sigh fills the room as she places a hand on her hip. “I’m just glad your address panned out. If it wasn’t so public this would have been much more difficult.”

Tatum used to think it not a big issue, having her address readily available to the press. Suddenly, she was having second thoughts.

Priya raises an eyebrow expectantly until realization dawns on Tatum’s face. “Oh! I’m sorry,” she steps aside. “Why don’t you come in?”

“Thank you.” She tilts her chin, a slight smirk still on full display as she takes a delicate step inside.

As soon as Tatum closes the door quietly behind her, Priya’s eyes and hands are nearly everywhere – touching and looking at almost everything she spots. They drift across her end tables and flit across her bookcases with unbridled curiosity. “Can I…get you anything? A cup of tea perhaps?”

“No,” She turns back to her. “This won’t take long.”

Tatum’s stomach plummets at her words.

Trying to shake off the feeling, Tatum tries to remind herself this is her home. She’s the one in charge here. No one can let her feel insignificant unless she allows it. “A-alright.” She frowns faintly at the slight tremble in her voice as Priya’s smirk widens. She gestures for her to take a seat before joining her across the table, from the other side of her sofa.

“You have quite the apartment.” Priya starts, her eyes shifting again to take in the length of the room. “Very…” Her eyes stop at the bright and warm textures of her accent wall and pillows. “Quirky.”

“Um, thank you?” Tatum replies, her voice full of question. She clasps her hands tightly together and within the folds of her skirt, before she smoothens her tone. “I quite adore it.”

“I can certainly see the appeal,” Priya continues, “there’s a…certain quality it has.” She scrutinizes the magazines across her coffee table. “This is an upcoming neighbourhood after all.” She adds; her gaze shifting once again but it freezes the same time Tatum does.

It’s Thomas briefcase.

The telltale letters of his initials stare obnoxiously back at them; engraved into its polished silver handle. And Tatum can’t help the mild satisfaction from building inside her chest as Priya’s eyes linger in its direction.

Priya’s entire posture grows stiff, before she finally settles her gaze elsewhere. By the windowsill decorated in an assortment of Tatum’s favourite plants.

The silence is too loud. 

Tatum is too aware of it as she fidgets in her seat. It’s too difficult to break. But perhaps she should at least try – she’d be damned to feel uncomfortable in her own house. It’s only a matter of how to break it before it becomes unbearable.

However, the big elephant in the room was now irrevocably obvious. Even though he isn’t present, Thomas Hunt still manages to hold their complete attention.

Sooner than later, her nerves win and Tatum breaks the silence first. “Priya.” She tests her name on her tongue, deciding the name would have been much easier to say if she didn’t have reservations about meeting the woman. “I don’t mean to be rude but – ”

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Priya interrupts, returning her gaze back to her.

Tatum frowns. “I’m not sure I follow…”

She rolls her eyes as though its obvious. “Do I really have to say it?” She gestures between them. “I simply find some…hilarity in how quickly some of us are able to move on.”

Move on?

“I’m talking about Thomas of course.” Priya tosses her hair over her shoulder. “He must have mentioned me in passing. But I suppose, we are simple creatures after all. Fickle with our desires.”

Tatum blinks at her.

She’s posed near the end of Tatum’s couch with her legs crossed and her gaze completely coy. “You mean, Thomas didn’t mention us?” Her eyes widened in dismay before she placed a hand on her temple. “Perhaps, I spoke too soon.”

Tatum flinches. Her back stands a little straighter as though she’s been poked. She bites her tongue in an effort not to ask. She’s almost too afraid to ask.

She averts her eyes from Priya’s triumphant stare. She tries to tell herself she has no reason to be upset, no reason to feel as hurt as she does, staring at her fingers tightly clenched inside her lap. Three months. A lot can happen in three months.

“Thomas mentioned you.” There’s no mistaking the bite in between her words. There’s a hardness to it, although she manages to keep eerily calm. “Tatum Everly. Even if he hadn’t mentioned you, the press certainly does. You’ve become quite a media darling after The Last Duchess made her debut.” She taps her finger on her chin, appearing thoughtful. “I wonder where you would have ended up if Thomas hadn’t taken an incredibly huge risk with you?” She pauses, shaking her head. “No matter. Now that I’ve met you in person, I suppose I can see the appeal. You are fairly pretty,” her lips purse around the word, “meek – maybe a little too nice for someone as stoic as he is.”

Tatum opens her mouth to protests but nothing comes out.

“Although, some congratulations are in order. Hollywood insider has chewed you up and spit you back out, and you’ve still managed to keep it…mostly together.”

Tatum’s stomach shrinks a little at the oversimplification. No one has ever summarized her quite so quickly. Suddenly, she wants to disappear in her seat from underneath the weight of Priya’s withering stare. “But you know better than to listen to everything the media says.”

“Of course. Who doesn’t?” She snorts. “Would you rather I believe the completely horrid  things they’ve said? When you were working for Viktor Montmartre,” at Tatum’s flinch, Priya adds. “His agency didn’t have as many nice things to say about you.”

For a moment, Tatum doesn’t know what to say. It isn’t as though she knew much about Priya Singh herself, other than the little bits that Thomas had mention in passing. “I’m surprised you left Hollywood University.” She sits upright again, flickering her gaze back at the woman who seems surprised by her words. But she does know enough. “Considering its such a prestigious school, wouldn’t a professor of your caliber want to remain apart of the district board?” She pauses as Priya’s eyes flashed with irritation. “But then again, Hollywood Insider hadn’t exactly the nicest things to say about you either when they heard you were fired.”

Priya’s shoulders are stiff as she shrugs again. “Allegedly,” she corrects, miffed. “I was in dire need of a vacation anyway.” She continues quickly.

Tatum suppresses the urge to smile, but barely at her mild triumph. Priya doesn’t exactly strike Tatum as a woman that’s often caught off-guard. And besides, she can’t be afraid of going head-to-head with her. If she’s going to be a permanent part of Thomas’ life, it means she has to be brave. To fight for him.

“And your vacation led you here?” She lifts her brows expectantly.

“I spent quite portion of my youth here. With a lot of my friends, business partners.”

“With Thomas Hunt.”

Priya smirks. “Yes.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Her voice isn’t shaking anymore, it’s remarkably smooth. Clipped. She’ll have to pat herself on the back later. “To tell me you two were…well intimate with each other.” Even the word makes her stomach twists into knots, but she keeps her features calm.

“No, of course not.” Priya appears appalled by the idea, dropping a hand to her lips before shaking her head.

“I’m not stupid Priya.” Tatum interjects. Her voice rises with every word, “He doesn’t have to mention you. It’s not like I didn’t expect Thomas not to explore some…unresolved feelings he might have had for you.” She clears her throat, meeting Priya’s scrutinized stare unflinchingly. “But that’s all in the past now.” She jerks her chin up high. Rising promptly to her feet, Tatum folds her arms across her chest. “And if that is all you came here to say, I think it’s time you left.”

Although, she appears taken aback by Tatum’s resolve, Priya doesn’t make a move to stand. “Is it?” She tsks instead, leaning forward with a faint smirk still on her lips. “Then, I suppose Thomas also mentioned he was by my place last night.” Her eyes darkened with amusement as Tatum freezes.

“I – what?”

“So, he hadn’t?” Priya’s eyes darken as she gets to her feet. She runs a hand through her hair. “He needed to talk to me he said. He said he needed to put things back into perspective.” She snorts derisively. “Then things went...further than talking, but I’ll leave out those details for your sake.” She waves a hand dismissively.

For a moment, Tatum can’t speak. Her mind is still trying to play catch up. “You’re lying.” Those are the first words out of her mouth. Everything inside her wants to deny it.

“Oh Tatum,” her gaze turns pitying.

“Thomas wouldn’t do that.” Tatum says weakly. Not after everything we went through last night.

“So young, so utterly naïve.” Priya sighs. “Well, you don’t have to take my word for it. If Thomas is anything like the man you and I think he is - you can always ask him. And he’ll tell you he was at my place last night before he came running to you.” She shrugs, her eyes never wavering from her face. “Yes – I didn’t miss the briefcase. But Thomas Hunt…whoever he was when I knew him, he isn’t the same man now.” She shakes her head, then tucks her clutch under a slender arm. “I had some reservations about meeting you in person but now I’m glad I did because, now you know.” She stalks past her, heels clicking at the same rate of Tatum’s heart. “No need to walk me to the door, I can see myself out.”

Helplessly, Tatum turns and watches her go.

“Have a good day, Tatum.” Priya tosses behind her shoulders before quietly closing the front door behind her.

Tatum stares at the door, half in shock – half in denial. She can’t seem to will herself to move. She replays it in her mind – Priya’s words. How self righteous she sounded. It can’t be true. It can’t be.

They didn’t come this far for this. For her heart to break at just the thought of the two of them alone, kissing, rolling over sheets – naked.

Then slowly Tatum slides to the floor, clutching at the side of her sofa for support, gasping for her breath before her back lies flatly against it. Had she been wrong? Had she been wrong to give away her entire heart to him?

I love you Tatum. And when I was lost, you were the one to bring me back – you’ve always been the one to bring me back.

She tries to wrap herself around his words like a warm blanket, desperate to shut out the cold and harshness of Priya’s words. Desperate to believe in his love, desperate to remember his smile. Except all it ends up accomplishing - leaves her feeling empty and his words rang hallow, deep within her heart.

-

Thomas Hunt hums subconsciously to himself on the way up the elevator shaft. He catches himself in the mirror grinning and shakes his head.

It’s been too long since he’s felt this happy, felt this at peace. The world could end right now and he would have died a happy man. However, he was thankful it was still spinning – still giving humanity days and nights, seasons but mostly importantly – he was eternally grateful the world had given him Tatum. His world only made the most practical sense with her in it and now that he realized the depth of his feelings for her; he swore to himself to never allow anyone or anything to come between them again.

She had been the only person who had stuck by him no matter what, and he wouldn’t squander what they had a second time. He knew better.

Thomas shifts on his feet and the paper bag of Chinese food wafts towards his nose. It reminds him how hungry was as his stomach grumbles. He can’t remember the last time he’s shared a decent meal with anyone that wasn’t simple coffee and a croissant. And knowing it’s Tatum he is sharing it with gives him an extra happiness to his gait as he steps out of the elevator shaft.

Immediately the colour drains out of his face.

There’s a familiar figure ahead of him.

Priya.

Unless his eyes were deceiving him, he finds the sultry sashay of her hips and the quiet smirk of her eyes easy to decipher as she grows closer. What on Earth was she doing here? “Priya,” he starts.

The moment she notices him, her entire posture grows rigid. “Thomas.” She recovers in seconds, giving him a smile as the distance between them becomes less and less.

“What are you doing here?” His gaze turns into one of suspicion. “I thought I made it very clear last night where we stood.” He clears his throat.

“Oh, you did,” She responded, casually leaning up against him.

He stiffens. “Then why are you –” he steps aside from her and narrows his eyes as the realization slowly dawns on him. “You’ve spoken to Tatum.”

She jerks her chin upright and meets his suddenly hard stare. “I have.” She challenges.

His hands clench into tight fists at his sides. “You had no right –”

“Well you weren’t going to.” She interjects thinly, her voice sharp enough to make a lesser man cower.

But not Thomas. He stands straighter, boring her down with a glare fierce enough for her to step back. They weren’t simple graduate students anymore and Thomas isn’t under any impression that Priya stopped by for the goodness of her heart.

“And I couldn’t leave her in the dark.”

“In the dark?” He repeats, scowling as she steps towards the elevator. “You told her about last night.” Without a second thought, he grabs her arm. “You told her about last night. What did you say?”

“What do you think I said, Thomas?” Priya wrenches her arm free just as the doors opened with a soft ding. “You claim to always know everything – you figure it out.” There’s a flicker of anger in her eyes before it disappears.

“Priya,” Thomas swears harshly, his hand inches away to stop the elevator as it closes.

“You made your move, and now I’ve made mine.”

“Dammit, Priya!” His free hand forms a fist and slams it against the elevator shaft. But it’s too late, he knows its too late but he cannot seem to stop himself from hitting it – over and over again. It isn’t until his hands are raw and aching from the effort that he takes a step back and tries to temper his anger.

He has known Priya to be a great deal of things; smart, beautiful, determined – but he hadn’t thought her capable of anything. At least, certainly not this. He thinks telling her he was no longer interested would be the end of it. It turns out, he was wrong and Tatum suffered because of it.

At the thought of her, his chest suddenly seizes with dread. Taking a deep breath, he hurries towards her door – hoping she’d allow him to explain, hoping she wouldn’t throw him out.

As Thomas feet reaches the doorstep of her home, he hesitates. It’s okay Thomas, she’ll let you explain. She’ll let you explain because she loves you. He repeats the words to himself like a mantra until his hand stops shaking. Then taking another breath, he opens the door.

“Tatum?” He calls timidly.

There’s no answer.

Heart abruptly heavy with concern for her, Thomas quickly drops the food by the kitchen counter and sweeps past the hall. “Tatum!” He calls again, louder this time. His heart races with every footstep that carries him through every room of her home. He searches, one at a time – desperately hoping she’s still here, that she didn’t leave.

As he gets to the front again, Thomas fishes hastily for his phone. He finds her number and calls.

The phone rings and rings, until there’s no answer.

There’s only the sound of her voicemail and his heart shattering as he slips it back inside his the folds of his jacket pocket.

-

[rhunterwriter-blog]

The Little Ones

In the days before the Breaking, Plymouth was considered a reasonably sized town. By more modern standards, that would have made it a fairly large city. Unfortunately, the town had suffered in the intervening decades, despite surviving the Breaking itself largely intact.

Years worth of moist air blowing in off the sea had taken its toll, and many of the homes and buildings stood broken down and decayed. The worst were those that sat abandoned for many years, the lack of maintenance often leading to rotted out frames and caved in ceilings. Constable Foster Hayden might have guessed that a full quarter of the buildings left standing weren’t safe enough to even enter any more.

The Constable walked by several such buildings on his patrol as he made his way to market row. Just because the buildings weren’t safe to enter didn’t mean that no one ever did. On the contrary, such a criminal underbelly as the town had often conducted business or laid low in the gutted structures. Where better to hide than where no sane man would go?

All and all Foster liked the little seaside town. It was just large enough to occasionally meet a stranger on the street. Not so small that absolutely everyone knew everyone else by name and on sight, and not so large as to get lost in an endless sea of faces.

As he walked through the open air market, the afternoon sun hidden behind thick clouds, Foster felt more than saw someone sidle up next to him. His hand instinctively reached for the weighted club on his belt just as the hooded figure tapped him on his shoulder.

Foster stopped abruptly and spun, hand on his cudgel, only to see the smiling face of his least intelligent cousin.

Living in a town the size of Plymouth had its downsides, one of which was having far too much extended family, some of whom were bound to be a prodigious pain in the ass. For him that pain was named Cyril, his mother’s older sister’s youngest son.

“Hey cuz, you got a sec for a drink?” Cyril asked with his usual lightheartedness.

Foster glanced up and down the street, then checked the empty doorframe of the abandoned building behind him. It wasn’t that he suspected Cyril of trying anything nefarious, he wasn’t that stupid, but the man was dense enough to make for a perfect dupe.

“For you Cyril? I have exactly one second, and no time at all for a drink,” Foster replied flatly, his eyes still scanning his surroundings.

“Come on cuz, it’s important.” The statement was delivered with more weight than Foster expected from his cousin. A rare moment of seriousness.

The Constable stood silent for a moment and calculated. Odds were that whatever Cyril had to say would be an absolute waste of time, and he had actual work to do. On the other hand, he could count at least five relatives he would be hearing from by noon tomorrow if he said no, and two of them were Foster’s own parents, regardless of the fact that he had moved out of their house and across town years ago.

“Fine Cyril, but it’ll have to be quick,” Foster finally responded.

“Fine, fine,” Cyril replied, turning and leading Foster towards a small establishment across the street.

Molly’s was more of a bar than a restaurant, and was mostly empty in the early afternoon. Nevertheless, the cheap sub-par food and large drinks served all day insured there were at least a few people in the place.

Cyril led Foster to a table against a wall, as far away from the other patrons as possible. The proprietress, Jolene, approached them from behind the bar. Cyril ordered a beer, and tried to order one for Foster as well.

“Just water for me, boiled mind. I’m still on duty Cyril,” Foster interjected, shifting his attention off of Jolene and back to his cousin. He studiously ignored the woman’s expression as she turned to walk away.

“So, what’s this all about?” he continued once he judged Jolene to be out of earshot.

“It’s kind of a long story.”

Foster shot the man across the table a hard look. He wasn’t very good at intimidating people with facial expressions, but he didn’t have to try very hard to pull off angry.

“I’m just trying to think of the fastest way to tell it!” His cousin responded, raising both of his hands defensively. Foster just sat quietly and waited for him to continue.

“I guess the best place to start would be that I’ve met someone.”

Foster almost walked away then and there. Cyril must have seen that urge on his face as well.

“It’s not like that! We’ve been together quite a while.”

“How long?” Foster asked. His cousin’s relationships were notorious for lasting days, if not hours.

“I’m not exactly sure. Two or three months?”

That surprised Foster. Cyril’s previous record had been something like two weeks.

“What happened?” Foster asked.

“She’s gone.”

Foster was standing to leave, not caring in the slightest about his cousin’s latest sob story, but at that moment Jolene returned with Cyril’s beer and his water. Foster thanked her quietly, tried to cover his reason for standing by adjusting his seat, and reached for his drink. He immediately sat it down on the table. It was literally boiling hot! How had the woman even carried the glass?!

He looked up, expecting to see Cyril well into his first drink. Instead his cousin was slouched over the glass, staring into the liquid. He had lost all of his usual flamboyance, in its place sat something like sad dejection.

“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’?” Foster asked reluctantly.

Cyril looked up at him, the Constable thought the man might have been crying if he had been sitting there alone.

“I mean she’s gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Missing. Whatever you want to call it. I can’t find her. No one knows where she is. I’ve talked to everyone, looked everywhere I can think of. I can’t find anything.”

That caught Foster’s attention, and, more importantly, was something he knew how to deal with.

“Alright, back up, who exactly are we talking about?”

Cyril sat back in his chair, his expression at least partially relieved.

“Her name is Sara. We met… It really doesn’t matter how we met. Anyway, she’s an artist. Smart, funny, charming, beautiful... way too good for a bum like me.” Cyril shook his head with a wry grin, eyes still on the table, his long dirty hair swinging in front of his face. He knew how people thought about him, Foster thought he usually took pride in it.

After a few seconds and a sip of sour beer, Cyril continued.

“Everything was going great, had been for a couple of months, then recently she started spending a lot of time with some new people.”

“Any idea who exactly? What kind of people?” Foster interjected.

Cyril shook his head again.

“No. I was trying to be supportive. Give her her space. Figured she’d tell me when she was ready. She’s an amazing person, but she can be self-conscious about the strangest things. I’m new at the whole relationship thing, but I trusted her to not keep anything really important from me.”

Foster nodded. He was sure there was more to it than Cyril was letting on, there always was when it came to things like this. For now he just waited for his cousin to continue.

“After a while she started to get reclusive. Spent less time with me and her old friends, spent more time with these new people she wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about. I tried asking her about it, told her I was worried. Me being worried turned into an argument. She stormed off and said she never wanted to see me again.”

Foster palmed his glass, trying to judge if the contents were safe to drink yet. He wanted to say that the girl was probably just avoiding him, and that Cyril should get over it, but he doubted he would be sitting here if it were that simple. For all of his cousin’s innumerable flaws, he did have his own dubious resources. More importantly, this had quickly spilled over from an annoying family matter into the purview of Foster’s actual job.

Cyril just stared at him, apparently waiting for more questions. When Foster didn’t ask any, Cyril continued.

“At first I thought she was just avoiding me. Figured she would cool off for a few hours, maybe a day, then she would come back and we could talk. After a couple of days I got in touch with some mutual friends, and they said they hadn’t heard from her either. Then I went to talk to her mother. She also said that she hadn’t seen her, but that she assumed that she had run off with me, and that she was worried because she thought that Sara might be pregnant...”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Cyril!” Foster interjected.

His cousin raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Hey man, we were careful. But I don’t know! I just don’t know...” He trailed off, his tone quickly taking on a defeated quality.

Foster just stared at Cyril. The man’s expression and body language evoked a list of adjectives; defensive, dejected, depressed, hopeless, angry, and, above all, helpless.

“Fine, I’ll look into it. Where does her mother live?”

Foster made his way down a poorly lit street. He was flanked on either side by abandoned repair shops and warehouses, the buildings casting long shadows in the evening light, occasionally cut through by his handheld lantern as he cast it about nervously.

The street was entirely deserted, as were the buildings around him. In the old days they would have serviced the sea trade, but the structures nearer the docks had plenty of room for that these days. The ones further inland had fallen out of use decades ago.

It hadn’t taken Foster long to find Sara’s mother. He hated talking to worried or grieving family members, but he had spent almost two hours talking through her daughter’s recent changes in habit. Inez Poole had largely confirmed what Cyril had said, though she was quite predictably less keen on Sara’s and Cyril’s relationship than his cousin was.

Apparently Inez had been happy that her daughter had fallen in with a more respectable crowed, as opposed to her eccentric artist friends and dead-end boyfriend. Unfortunately, when he had pressed her for their identities she had confessed that she didn’t actually know any of them, just that Sara had told her that they were all important and respectable people.

When he had asked about her daughter’s supposed pregnancy, Inez admitted that Sara hadn’t actually told her anything about it, but insisted that she had noticed certain changes in her behavior. The first had been her diet; she had started craving a great deal more meat, and other foods that she had previously expressed a dislike for. She had also started experiencing mood swings, alternating between withdrawn silence and animated excitement. In the week before her disappearance, her mother had noted that she had started wearing looser clothing to cover a slight but apparent bulge in her stomach.

That had all sounded fairly standard to Foster, but that was more of a problem for Sara and his cousin to worry about if and when she was found.

The most useful piece of information had come after the outpouring of worry for her daughter, and various invectives leveled at Cyril.

Sara had told her mother that her new friends had helped her set up a new space to work on her art; a run down but passable studio in a previously abandoned building. At first Inez had denied knowing where it was, but as it turned out she had a nosy streak. She had followed her daughter one night, ostensibly out of concern for her safety.

Given the part of town this alleged studio was in, that wasn’t an unreasonable concern. It wasn’t a place he would have suggested anyone go alone at night. Especially not an attractive young woman. Most especially not a pregnant one.

Perhaps that line of thinking made his present actions a bit hypocritical, but he doubted anyone would attack a uniformed Constable in the middle of the street, especially before full dark. If the girl really was just avoiding his cousin and her mother, this workspace of hers was the most likely place that he knew of to find her.

Foster found the building at the end of the abandoned street and could hear the sound of water lapping against rocks nearby. When he tried the door he met with some resistance, but a good shove with his shoulder was all that was needed to force it inward.

When the light of his lantern illuminated the inside of the space he immediately stepped back and took a second look at the faded numbers over the door, then compared them with the small slip of paper where he had recorded the address.

His first thought was that Sara’s mother must have remembered it wrong. The interior wasn’t anything resembling an art studio. It was a covered dock, with two long stretches of concrete on either side of a ramp, descending into a large pool of sea water. The back wall of the structure appeared to be an oversized door, broken in places and creaking in time with the lapping of the water.

The space certainly wasn’t what Foster had been expecting, but leaving would have been a waste. Maybe there was a loft that Sara had been using, or perhaps this building allowed access to another, smaller space in one of the adjacent structures.

With those possibilities in mind, Foster stepped inside, sweeping his lantern over the bare walls and floor.

As he walked towards the ramp that lead into the water, he heard a rustling sound behind him on his left and turned towards it, sweeping the lantern light over the far corner.

The light revealed an unmoving body with its back towards him, a woman judging by the length of its hair. A dark shape covered her shoulders and head, nibbling at her face almost affectionately.

When the lantern light fell on the dark shape it reacted violently, jumping off of the body and spinning to face Foster.

The best description he could think of for the thing was a perverse combination of a squid, a spider, and a house cat.

It was a slimy blue-black in color, barely a foot long, the majority of its length made up of four long cephalopoid appendages serving as legs. It seemed to stare at him briefly, though he couldn’t discern any visible eyes. He could make out a small carnivorous beak, flanked on either side by spider-like mandibles.

Foster reached for his cudgel slowly, but the small creature only lingered in the light for a moment, letting out a melodious chirping sound before bounding out of the beam of light with surprising speed.

The Constable spun in place cautiously, trying to search the entire space with the feeble light of his lantern. A few seconds later he heard a small splash in the water.

He felt a brief moment of relief, then he heard the rustling of a much larger creature somewhere in the rafters over his head. As he turned to look up he just barely caught sight of a massive shadow falling through the corner of his vision, then a much larger, heavier splash emanated from the water in front of him.

First he felt shock at the appearance of such a massive form, then relief when he quickly concluded that whatever it was had fled. That relief quickly turned to terror as he realized that instead of silence he was hearing a subtle swishing sound in the water, and that the shadows he was beginning to see under the surface weren’t simply a byproduct of the shallow waves.

He didn’t have any time or desire to think. Instead he fled, turning back towards the door and running as if his life depended on it.

It took Foster almost half an hour to reach the safety of the station. It took him another half hour to relate what he had seen to his superiors, and to convince them that he wasn’t raving mad.

Under different circumstances convincing others of his sanity might have been much more difficult, if not impossible. Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, the men and women he worked with were all accustomed to strangeness and violence. Plymouth was a largely peaceful place, but they all knew of the abnormal things that existed elsewhere in the world, and each and every one of them was determined not to let any of that unpleasantness take root so near to home.

A course of action was agreed to almost immediately, but it took another two hours to pull three more Constables off of their night patrols and get them all properly outfitted.

In this case, properly outfitted meant unlocking the old storage closet in the back of the station to pull out four hand grenades and a hand-pumped flame thrower. Each of the four took a grenade, and two of them, Anthony Marshall and Darin Arnold, teamed up to take the flame thrower. Anthony strapped the tank to his back and took the pump in hand, while Darin took the nozzle and igniter.

The extra weight of the grenade opposite the cudgel on Foster’s belt was unsettling, and he felt extremely under prepared in comparison to the two men behind him carrying the heavy weapon.

Still, he felt much less exposed with the two men watching his back and Freddie Black on his left, her own grenade and heavy stick supplemented by the half dozen or so knives that she was notorious for keeping on her person.

Foster led the way, the larger lantern he had picked up at the station illuminating almost the entire street in front of them. No one spoke for the near hour it took to walk back to the abandoned building next to the water. When they finally arrived in front of the closed door, Foster found himself at a loss for words.

Ultimately, Freddie put a finger to her lips, then motioned for Foster to open the door, indicating that the other two should rush in after him. Logical, given that he was holding their only source of light.

Foster hesitated for just a moment, then nodded, shoving the door open with his shoulder and pouring light into the space.

At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary, the space looking just as deserted as it had the first time he had entered. When he turned the lantern on where the body had been, he found it still lying there, a small black shape curled up in the crook of its exposed neck.

The shape cried out as the light fell on it, then lept down the dock towards the water.

Foster found himself at a loss, the creature too far away and moving too fast for him to reach it with his cudgel.

Thankfully, his companions were better prepared. Freddie shoved him bodily against the wall, out of the way of the two men behind them. As soon as they were both clear, Anthony and Darin shot a burst of flame at the leaping shape.

The creature cried out in pain, its leap turning into an uncontrolled tumble as it bounced off the hard concrete floor and into the water.

The splash was followed almost immediately by a quiet squelching sound, and Foster spun on his heels, shining the lantern light at the opposite side of the dock.

A much larger creature had appeared behind them, climbing down from the ceiling and onto the ground in near silence.

It seemed to be a much larger version of the thing they had just incinerated; its four black arms at least twelve feet in length, and the beak it extended towards Anthony and Darin easily as large as a human head.

Foster shouted wordlessly, and Darin spun to face the direction he was staring, tangling himself in the hose of the flame thrower as he did. Then it was Anthony and Darin’s turns to scream as they tried to disentangle themselves and bring the weapon to bare.

Two of the creatures long arms shot out, tangling around Anthony and Darin and trying to force them towards its maw. The two men fought valiantly, but Darin had already lost his footing and fallen to one knee.

As Foster stood stunned he noticed that Freddie wasn’t facing the new threat, but instead towards the water.

Foster closed his mouth to stop his own screaming and turned to follow her eyes.

The pool in the center of the building was churning. Shapes similar to the one they had already burned, though larger, were jumping up out of the water before splashing back down again, all of them surging towards the ramp leading to the intruders.

Foster drew his cudgel instinctively, realizing even as he did so that the gesture was useless. There were simply too many of them.

Freddie was thankfully more level headed. She slipped the grenade off of her belt, pulled the pin, and lobbed it into the water. Then she reached for Foster’s belt and repeated the process with his grenade as well.

Foster braced himself for the explosion, and was startled as a roar of flames exploded behind him. He turned his head to find that Anthony and Darin had managed to fire a prolonged burst at the large creature that was assailing them. Darin was lying on his back, angling the nozzle directly into the open beak of the unnatural beast to fire at point blank range.

The large figure let out an unworldly cry, far louder and deeper than the one that the smaller creature had managed, and dove for the water as well.

Two subdued explosions proceeded a much larger splash as the massive beast tumbled beneath the surface.

Anthony and Darin echoed Freddie’s earlier action, pulling the grenades from their belts and chucking them lazily into the water. Foster didn’t know if it would do any good, but it seemed as reasonable a course of action as any.

The Constable numbly noted that the building was on fire as they made their way outside, shaken, and in Anthony and Darin’s cases, burned and bloodied, but alive.

Freddie dragged the corpse of a young woman behind them as they departed.

The next morning, after a few hours of fitful sleep, Foster found himself summoned to the Mayor’s office.

It wasn’t a unique occurrence. The Mayor was an eccentric man, and he liked to stay informed about what was happening in the town. His town, as he often referred to it. No doubt he wanted the whole story straight from Foster’s mouth.

After the night’s events the Constable had passed out at the station, which was thankfully situated just down the street from the old city hall. He took a few extra minutes to rinse out his mouth, wash the soot off of his face, and put on a fresher uniform before following the aid that had been sent to fetch him to the site of his next interrogation.

When the aid finally left him it wasn’t with the Mayor himself, but instead a secretary in her forties sitting at a large desk in front of his office. She informed Foster that he would have to wait a while.

Foster barely processed what the woman had said, distracted with noting the bags under her eyes and what looked like tear streaks on her cheeks.

The Mayor finally called for him a few minutes later, and Foster let himself in through the heavy double doors.

Mayor Waters sat behind his desk, scribbling on a small sheet of paper. He was a large man who bordered on truly fat. Like the woman outside he had bags under his eyes, though his were less pronounced. Part of Foster was glad that he wasn’t the only one who was tired, but had everyone in Plymouth lost sleep last night?

“Ah, Constable Hayden. I heard you lead something of an impromptu raid on the waterfront last night.” Mayor Waters’s voice was subdued. He opened one of his desk drawers and removed something before placing the page he had been writing on inside.

“Lead is a strong word, but yes. I provided the initial information and guided a few other Constables to the location in question to take care of the situation.” Foster eyed the two heavy armchairs in front of the Mayor’s desk, but he hadn’t been asked to sit so he reluctantly remained standing.

The Mayor leaned back in his seat, spreading his hands over his stomach.

“’The situation’ referring to the unfortunate business involving the dear miss Sara Poole?” The Mayor asked. The man looked tired. No, not tired, bereaved.

“Yes sir. Though we haven’t confirmed the identity of the body as of yet,” Foster replied, confused.

“I take it that you haven’t seen the doctor’s report then. I’ll save you the trouble. The body you dragged out of that building last night was Sara Poole. I identified her this morning myself. Were you aware that she was working for my office?”

“No, sir,” Foster answered, suspecting the Mayor was about to launch into one of his famous monologues.

“I’m not surprised, she didn’t advertised it. Sara joked that it would hurt her credibility as an artist. She started almost two months ago. A temporary stand in for Lidia out there. A brilliant girl. Smart, sensitive, creative, beautiful… Her death is a real tragedy. She will be sorely missed by everyone here. Tell me Constable, how would you describe the circumstances of this terrible business?”

Foster shook his head noncommittally.

“I don’t rightly know sir. As I said, I wasn’t even certain of her identity until you confirmed it. When I first found her she was being gnawed on by some abnormal creature. I suppose it’s possible that it, or something like it, killed her. Or that someone else did it and dumped her in the empty building, and whatever it was we found was just scavenging her corpse.” Foster was having a hard time reading the Mayor’s expression. The man’s face was blank. Maybe it was just his way of concealing grief.

After a few seconds of visible consideration the Mayor nodded.

“Yes, I see how you could come to that conclusion. Tell me Constable, what happened to the creature you say you found… gnawing… on her?”

The Mayor’s expression was dark. It occurred to Foster that “gnawing” may not have been the best adjective to describe what had happened to one of his staff members.

“It’s dead sir. At least I can only imagine it is. We burned it.”

Mayor Waters sighed sadly, then produced a pearl handled revolver and set it on the table pointing at the Constable, his finger lightly tapping the trigger.

Foster froze, his hand inches from his cudgel. He had never fired a gun before, but he knew how they worked in principle, and the Mayor was just eccentric enough to have both the revolver and the ammunition to match.

“I was afraid you might put things in those terms. Personally, I had hoped that you might be brought around to the right side of things, in spite of your recent… transgressions. Unfortunately, I don’t think that will be possible under the circumstances.”

“I don’t rightly understand sir,” Foster responded warily, playing for time. He really didn’t understand.

Mayor Waters rose to his feet, one hand holding the revolver, the other covering an apparent pain in his stomach.

“I’m afraid you’ve been looking for foul play where there never was any Constable. Poor Ms. Poole died of natural causes. Bled out after giving birth in fact. I told her she needed to take better care of herself. Carrying one of the little ones isn’t the same as a normal child... The body doesn’t fatten itself up the same way... I suppose she was concerned other people would notice, or maybe she was just worried about her figure.” The Mayor broke into a coughing fit, and Foster was tempted to rush the man. He resisted the urge, figuring that he wouldn’t be able to make it over the desk before the larger man got a shot off.

After the coughing subsided, the Mayor resumed his tirade.

“She wasn’t due for another week, the poor dear, and none of us were at the sanctum that night. As far as we can tell, she wandered in early in the morning. She should have gone for help, but she must have been concerned for the little one. She cared for them so much. I’ve never seen anyone take to them as quickly as she did, be so eager to carry one of their own.”

The Mayor coughed again, a jet of black and red shooting out of his midsection as he did.

Foster stepped back instinctively, expecting another gush of blood. Surprisingly, the Mayor was still on his feet, a trickle of red fluid running down his bulk and a coin sized hole in his jacket.

In a state of disbelief, Foster’s eyes ran from the Mayor to the other side of the room. A writhing ball of tentacles laid at the end of a long trail of blood, flopping helpless on the floor. As Foster watched, it slowly righted itself, drawing itself up on four limbs and seeming to stare up at Mayor Waters.

Foster acted reflexively, drawing his cudgel and stepping forward to clobber the abomination to death. He would figure out how it had gotten into the Mayor’s stomach later.

He had barely made it two steps before he heard a loud bang, then felt a blinding pain shoot through his right arm.

The next time Foster opened his eyes, he found himself lying on the floor. Mayor Waters was standing over him with the small creature curled up in one arm, nuzzling him like a particularly affectionate kitten. His other hand still held the pearl handled revolver.

“I didn’t have to explain any of this to you Foster. I could have just had you beaten down in the street, or chopped up into chum, but I thought you should know. At one point I had high hopes for you, that you could see reason, but you’ve proven that impossible.

“You’re not going to die because you discovered our secret, or even because of your own ignorant stupidity. You’re going to die because you took the tragedy of a beautiful, brilliant woman’s death and made it worse by killing her offspring and assaulting the being that saw fit to bless her with it. My only regret is that this will be over so quick.”

Foster never heard the second gun shot. The bullet had already torn through his brain before the sound reached his ears.

If anyone was hoping for something a bit longer than my usual stories, this is for you. I hope you all enjoy it. As always, thanks for reading.

Places you can find me:

WordPress: rhunterwriter.wordpress.com DeviantArt: rhunterwriter.deviantart.com Tumblr: rhunterwriter.tumblr.com Twitter: twitter.com/RHunterWriter

[cerastes]

how in the bloody hell did you get so much confidence? i'm currently in depression hell and i really need to crawl out of it

Right, I think it’s important to talk about this earnestly, so let’s turn off the Jokes for a second, and let’s have a talk.

How did I get so much confidence? I faked it till I made it. You, too, can pretend until it becomes real. This probably sounds god damn crazy to anyone deep in depression, but trust me, and the thousands of others that have done this: It works. When you start faking it, when you start wearing that mask of confidence, and acting with confidence, things start moving inside of you, and soon that mask becomes real, and you don’t even notice, because you were having so much fun not being the sad, miserable you, having so much fun being the ideal you that cuts through the waves like the mighty battleship you always wanted to be, that you don’t even realize you’ve truly become that person. “Become” isn’t the right word... You always could be that person, but you were holding yourself back all this time. By simply acting like it, you get a taste of that happiness, and there’s no turning back after you taste it, haha.

Now, words are cheap, I guess, and at the end of the day, I am the internet dude that just says things and can’t really intervene directly in your depression. I want to tell you more than “I tried this! It worked”, so if you think the above paragraph is enough, I am glad, but if it’s not fully satisfactory, I want to share with you how it went for me, so you know I am not just talking out of my ass, so you know how ugly my own depression was, and what I did in my own case to get over it, because depressions are ugly, and while they are all different for each one of us, their ugliness is something they have in common.

But you know what else depressions have in common? That you can overcome them. Beating depression is not just knowing a method and thinking, it’s about taking action. This is a story of taking action. Thinking just isn’t enough, you have to DO.

I am putting this under a read more because the beginning is dry (it’s also long), and I’d rather only people that want to read it, read it. No sense in putting a big fat dump of Sad in front of everyone, but keep in mind, there’s light at the end of it, because that’s the fundamental reason for this: That depression can be made your bitch, and that it isn’t invincible by any means. Warning: Suicide mention.

I entered a deep, deep depression in 2009, when I was graduating high school. Until then, I wasn’t particularly sad, and was in fact well liked by my peers, mostly due to (and I swear I am not throwing flowers at myself here) my natural charisma, which helped a lot to cover for my social anxiety. I was insecure about a lot of things, but I also was having fun with my life here and there, as long as I was out of home or locked in my room. 

But after I graduated and moved out, a lot of stuff happened, and in 2010, it really just went rampant. I was suicidal, depressive as all hell, with a lot of pent up frustration, and in a very toxic environment. I used to own a revolver, and I sat down with it and considered blowing my brains out, but thankfully I didn’t. I moved out to a place where my friends and my best friend weren’t, so I didn’t have my usual support network, and things with my online friends were very turbulent at that point. All of it came crashing on me, and my usual manners of coping with it all were gone, so now I was left alone with my insecurities and a whole ton of terrible things that kept increasing in number around me.

2011, I had enough, I said fuck you to my family, grabbed my shit, and left. It’s always very complicated to discuss my family because I know my mom and dad love me, and I love them, but they made a lot, a lot of mistakes that their pride would not let them own up to, and everyone else in my family that wasn’t those two, and two other aunts, were basically massively toxic and terrible to me. I straight up left, I didn’t fucking care anymore. This was at the start of 2011, and throughout 2011, I was basically at my lowest, since I cut off contact with practically everyone, disappeared, and was a drunkard. More than once, I woke up under bridges or at benches in the park. I was drinking 2 litters of beer minimum daily, and far more if it was a “get shitfaced to forget the pain” day. My father knew where I lived, and he’d come pretty often, and we’d fight. We’d fight so damn much. My relationship with my girlfriend from this era was also becoming very tense. 

2011 was the bottom of it all for me. It was the cusp of my depression. I didn’t shave, I didn’t shower, I didn’t wash my clothes, I didn’t do the dishes, I didn’t take out the trash, I didn’t care. My little apartment was a god damned pigsty, full of fast food and snack bags scattered everywhere, my plates had mold growing on them, and I just really rinsed one plate and used it over and over. I was the bitch in the “damn bitch you live like this?” image. I reeked of alcohol all day, and my apartment, aside from all the trash, consisted of my bed, my computer, my PS3, a TV, and fuck all else. Just a little sad dumpster where I could drink and submerge myself in fiction so I could just forget that my life was out of control and a god damn fucking mess with no coming back. My days consisted of me just waking up, writing, playing games, watching anime, going out, getting piss drunk to forget the pain, and then passing out somewhere. I legitimately wanted to die. 

At around the end of 2011, I once again sat down on my bed, aimed my revolver at my head, and was this close to pulling the trigger. I luckily didn’t have the guts to do so again, and this was the point in which I realized that this was wrong, that all of this bullshit was wrong, that this was no fucking way to live. I used to have fun, I wanted that fun back, I used to enjoy things, I wanted to enjoy them again, to feel the thrill, to feel the joy of doing things again, of accomplishing stuff. I started wondering, how come I used to enjoy things so much, and at which point I fucked up so bad that I became like this? And when you are depressive, you think about this a lot.

I realized that was my mistake.

Thinking wasn’t gonna get me anywhere. It didn’t get me anywhere at the end of 2009. It didn’t get me anywhere throughout 2010. It didn’t get me fucking anywhere in 2011. Scratch that, it did get me somewhere in 2011: It got me the brink of blowing my fucking brains out. No, thinking wasn’t the solution. That’s when I said “fuck thinking”, because sometimes, you have to think, but other times? You have to act.

This was the time to act.

I got rid of my revolver, and I cleaned all of my apartment. Did the dishes, sent the clothes to wash, scraped the mold, I went full Captain Hygiene on this bitch. How was I when I wasn’t a sad sack that wanted to die? I was charismatic, funny, did pranks, and I enjoyed using my imagination. But that wasn’t enough, no, because even when I wasn’t this depressive, I still had several things holding me back, and the me from before ended up being depressive, so I might just set myself for a loop in the future. I wasn’t going to just be happy, baby, I was aiming to become better than I ever was, go BIG or go home, and I always go BIG. No, that wasn’t enough, so what is it that I wanted to be, on top of my good aspects as a kid? I wanted to be confident, to be proud of my skills, to be a dependable leader that people KNEW was going to get shit done, to enjoy life even when it wasn’t going the best, to be mature, and to be just what I wanted to be instead of what I was told to be. Fuck expectation, fuck the status quo, fuck everything anyone else wants you to be, YOU be what YOU want to be. That’s who I wanted to be, so I started acting. I put on the tightest mask I had ever put on, and I went out there not being Dreamer, but rather, being Dreamer EX 9000, the better, cooler, happier Dreamer.

My family always treated me like a weirdo. It is true that I am eccentric, I fully acknowledge it, and not in a “wacky lovable kooky dude way!”, I mean in a “I do have weird aspects to myself that I know can weird people out”, but I still resented them very heavily for always trying to make me into someone I wasn’t instead of just accepting me for who I was. The status quo was always something that I was beaten with. “That’s weird, don’t do that/say that”, “why aren’t you like other kids?”, “you have very weird interests for a boy of your age”, “why aren’t you doing this? Everyone else is doing it, you are strange, Dreamer”, “stop playing games so much and come with us to the family meetings every single weekend”, and a lot more, are phrases I grew up with. I was weird for wanting my personal space, I was weird for not liking going to the country every weekend to meet up with cousins that I didn’t like, I was weird for not wanting to go play football with the kids in my class, weird weird weird weird weird weird all was weird and I was some pariah apparently, man, so I said You Know What Fuck You, and that’s why I left home and cut off my family. A man only has so much patience for that shit, and mine was expended a long time ago. It turns out, now that I was living by myself and engaging with more diverse people, people didn’t fucking care about my “weirdness”. As long as you own up to what you are and are a nice person otherwise, people DON’T FUCKING CARE, and that was a huge point of happiness to me. I wasn’t in an oppressive environment anymore. People would accept me for who I was, and that had its weight in gold for me. Years later, when my family did try to make contact with me, I just brushed them off and told them to fuck off. It took months of them bugging me before I said “Yeah ok I will forgive you but under the condition you NEVER fucking hang the status quo over my head again, and if you do, I am out for good, don’t you fucking try me”. Turns out walking out of your family’s life and cutting them off for years does leave a lasting impression, so they accepted, and now we good. Dreamer EX 9000 was comfortable with who he was, and fuck everyone who had anything to say about it.

My childhood environment, family, school, and internet included, was always this kind of excessively... Bitch ass place, to put it mildly. Like, humility is good, PLEASE be humble, but there is such a thing as being humble to a fault, and forcing that onto others. I never was allowed to feel good about my accomplishments. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t a slimy cocky son of a bitch, and that I loved complimenting others, the moment I felt proud about me being good at something or an accomplishment, it was immediately seen badly. Why? Are we supposed to just fucking self flagellate all our god damn lives? Are we never allowed to feel good about ourselves? Fuck that noise. They wanted to paint that as narcissism? Sure, I was gonna fucking give it to them. That was kinda where the whole “narcissist Dreamer” humorous charade was born from. Whereas before I would just shut up and take it, Dreamer EX 9000 would just fucking go to town with it, and run the whole 9 yards, being fully honest when he was good at something, without being cocky, just taking pride in something that deserved being proud of.

It was at this point that I needed to start rebuilding my social network. Around April 2012, that I said good riddance to the mostly very toxic online community and I began looking for something new, something fresh to get into and give it my everything. I needed this new spice of life, and I found it in something called Touhou. I just launched myself blind into it, after a friend suggested I give the games a spin and the fan stuff a try. I had a unpleasant run in with Touhou before, but I just said “eh, bad first impressions happen, let’s try again”, and I ended up getting really, really into it. Like super duper mega into it. That’s when I started this blog! Haha, ok, so, confession, I started this blog literally just to follow a certain Touhou art askblog, and due to certain coincidences, unexpected accidents, and one self imposed challenged I actually have not ever mentioned to anyone before, I ended up in the RP side of Touhou Tumblr. That was honestly a great thing, because mid 2012 was around the time where things with my ex from then were very, very tense, and we broke up, but it wasn’t a HUGE deal to me because I more or less had come to terms that she was a terrible toxic bitch, and also that I wasn’t as mature as I thought I was (and you gotta accept your bad aspects dude). Tumblr, RP side and just regular side, lead to me meeting a ton of people I love to this day and I consider great friends, and at one point, even someone I loved romantically (and later we broke up, as some of you remember), but even with all the good and bad, with the amazingly fun starts and the sadly toxic end stretch of the RP side, I am very glad it happened, since it helped me grow as a person.

On the IRL end of things, I slowly but surely started regaining contact with real people. My best friend in life, F, accepted my apologies and helped me a great deal with not phasing out of real contact again, and on one occasion, even gave me a very stern talking to when I was starting to relapse a little into my toxic old habits (which can very much happen and you have to be strong and not fall into it again). I cannot thank him enough for this. The friends worth sticking to are the ones that are kind enough to raise a hand at you when you stray from the proper path. I started knowing new people IRL and working on how I wanted to be seen. That’s honestly important and I hate the status quo for vilifying this: It’s really important for you to present yourself in the way you want to be seen. You wanna be seen as an attractive person? It’s fully fucking ok for you to want that and for you to do your best so it happens. Don’t let weak ass social constructs oppress you. Be the fucking excellent person you want to be, but put the effort in it, yeah? And don’t forget to stay a nice person.

The years kept going, and before I knew it, Dreamer EX 9000 didn’t exist anymore, because he fused with Dreamer when I was not looking, creating The Cool Dreamer, and it wasn’t an act anymore, it was legit who I was. It was who I wanted to be, who I knew I could be, and then, it was me.

It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t smooth. I had relapses, I had bouts of I Hate Everything in midst of it, and now and then, nowadays, I still have little periods of time in which I just wake up in bad moods and very sad and bitter with no explanation, but then they are gone and I am back to being The Cool Dreamer. 

Depression hell is hard to get out of, but it’s not impossible. It won’t happen in one day, one week, one month, one year, but it will happen if you act. 

Stop thinking. Start acting. Start doing.

You can either stay where you are and rot for years to come, or you can swallow the bitter pill, go through the painful, difficult first step, and start the progress to recovery, like I did, and like how many people have done.

This is gonna hurt to read, but being a victim is comfortable. Because anything that happens, you can just blame life sucking and then you do nothing about it, as if nothing can be done about it. I know I did before I started acting. It’s bullshit. Something can be done about it. It just isn’t easy, but it’s necessary.

This is my story and my invitation: Do you want to stay sad and rotting where you are right now? Or do you want to take the painful first step now so you can smile later, and see that life has a lot of fucking awesome things, and that the pain was worth it every bit?

Pain is temporary, but glory is eternal.

Take the first step. All of us that already did will wait for you at the finish line with arms wide open.

[the-vaporverse]

Starless Horizon RP File #21

(Vela’s part in italics.)

After such a slow and relaxing evening, Vela was almost ready to forgive the fact that they would need to see Fera the next day. After all, it wasn't necessary to think about it until they had gone through a day of unpacking and visiting several offices to be sure their continued presence on the station was still secured. She had no idea where someone like a prince would spend his own day, but knowing he was somewhere did make her look over her shoulder more than once while they were out of their rooms.

With dinner over and the time of the meeting approaching, however, Vela was finding herself a little grumpy at the prospect. It would be a nicer time without having to deal with this. Currently she was sitting and watching Dritz select what he was going to wear; she was only wearing one of her regular, shapeless black tunics with leggings. [I don't want to make this special,] she had explained to Dritz with the slightest frown.

Dritz gave Vela a sheepish smile, moving over to where she was sitting and stroking her face. "Well, every day with you is special to me," he said, almost triumphantly, as though he was proving a point, but what that point actually was... well, it was anyone's guess.

Returning to his clothes, which were laid out over the back of a chair, Dritz tapped his chin. He was trying to choose between a high collared pastel blue shirt (one of the most formal things he had), and a more casual sweater with hazy stripes. He wasn't particularly trying to make the occasion special, but it did feel as though he ought to make something of an effort, trying to think of it like he would when meeting a family member's partner for the first time. Orion had the potential to be a very close friend.

"I dunno, I'm putting too much thought into this, aren't I?" he said with a grimace, looking over his shoulder at Vela, who seemed pretty amused, despite how her mood had been regarding seeing the prince. "I'll just go with the sweater, yeah?"

In the back of his mind, he found he secretly wanted to impress Fera, though why that might be, he sure didn't know.

Vela gave Dritz a fond, if a touch exasperated, smile when he mentioned the days being special with her. Even if it was true, it was beside the point. Though, really... Fera couldn't ruin the enjoyment she had while being with Dritz at all.

[The sweater,] she agreed, now amused by his lengthy deliberations. [You don't want to make Fera think he's special, is what I mean. But you look very handsome no matter what.] She had actually come to find she thought this was true, and would enjoy his appearance no matter what anyone else might say.

Finally ready to leave, it seemed they might arrive at the hologarden a little late. Vela had no problems with this, especially considering Fera was not going to be expecting them anyway. The sight of the garden once again did make her pause in wonder, even having spent time on real planets with real foliage.

Everywhere there were trees with long, long branches that weren't stiff at all like the usual trees she had seen. Instead they flowed straight to the ground, also having long leaves which fluttered and waved in a simulated breeze. It seemed to produce a faint sighing sound which was altogether pleasant, and Vela forgot about irritating princes again.

[Do you know what these are?] she signed excitedly to Dritz, a genuine smile lighting up her face.

Snorting with laughter, Dritz agreed to making sure Fera didn't think he had made any specific preparations on his behalf. He found himself unable to fight the delighted grin on his face as he was informed that he looked very handsome no matter what. He had always thought of himself as very handsome.

His decisions on what to wear had slowed them just a little, but there was no pink haired scowling waiting for them at the entrance to the gardens, so he figured it was probably alright for the moment. Turning, he spotted Vela gazing at the long branches of the new trees. He'd heard some folk from Earth talking about them before. Now, what were they called...

"Whispering willows," he said confidently, beaming. "They're weird, huh? It's like they got too lazy to hold their branches up properly!"

Whispering willows...? Vela tried the words out in her head, thinking they sounded funny, but kind of nice. She made a note to herself to look up more information about the trees later.

Briefly distracted by wondering how it would feel to touch them, she almost didn't hear a familiar voice coming from further in the garden. Almost. She froze momentarily, but the voice was coming toward them, and her chance to turn around and leave (though she wouldn't) was soon gone.

"...there really isn't anything interesting about this. And the technology is so dated. Coronus can produce much better in terms of holograms. I don't see why you-"

The voice had stopped, because the owner had come into view and spotted Vela and Dritz. Prince Fera certainly looked much the same, dressed all in elegant white with his pink hair currently flowing about his shoulders, but his expression was not one they had seen before.

It was a look of shock, or almost horror, but Vela wasn't sure. His eyes had gone wide and his chest was heaving slightly as though he was having difficulty catching his breath. Pointing straight at them, in a high pitched voice he exclaimed, "Where do you think you've been!?"

Dritz had been reaching to touch the hologram, as though he had forgotten that his hand would simply pass through the shimmering projection, when he felt his blood run cold at the shrill voice behind them. He, unlike Vela, had not noticed the voice before it became one of high pitched horror.

He turned with an innocent, charming smile, "Prince Fera?! You look lovely today. It's so, so nice to see you." He quickly swept an arm around Vela, leading her closer, but not too close.

"How have you been, Your Highness?" he asked with a wide grin that didn't reach his pained gaze, which he briefly flickered to Orion.

It had seemed an interesting request, likely a romantic gesture, which Orion seemed so fond of: a visit to the hologardens. Fera had never been there, but definitely had no particular motivation to go in the past. As he had said, Coronus had much more complex technology which would absolutely put that of Hesperus Alpha to shame. But he had come along, and likely for no other reason than to spend time with the human and to see that fond smile of his, much to Fera's dismay. He should not be so attached to someone, or so he thought.

But there, all of a sudden, to absolutely ruin the moment, were Dritz and V... something. It was definitely V-something, that strange female from Aurctas who could only talk with her hands in a way which Fera was nothing but suspicious of. What if she was cursing him? Cursing a prince would bring a huge fine, and he would have to tell her that. If he could get up the courage to. Being cursed was no light matter, whether whoever did it was fined or not.

Dritz was acting as though nothing was out of the ordinary, as though not almost a whole year had passed since they last crossed paths. Fera marched right up to him, ignoring the other one, and scowled bitterly. "Don't ignore my question. You can't just come up to me and expect flattery will make me forget. Usually."

Taking a step back, he looked down his nose at the Chrysalan. "I'm not answering any questions until you answer mine. Where have you been, exactly? You had acquired my services for protection for the Aurian. Whatever happened to that? Do you think the Merrgani have given up already?"

Vaguely he was aware of Orion standing behind him, likely trying to figure out what was going on. Explanations could wait, especially when he was so frustrated.

"We," Dritz explained with a wide grin, "have been to Trelos on business." He glanced around the assembled group, awaiting any further questions for all of three seconds before turning back to Fera, "Your services? Your Highness didn't seem to want to keep any sort of 'contract' with us, so we were under the impression that you had dismissed us. The Merrgani have likely not given up, so us being away for a while may have helped."

He leaned around Fera to greet Orion with a warm slap on the shoulder, "And how are you on this... engineered-to-be-fine day, my friend?"

Mouth slightly open, Fera listened to Dritz in a further state of shock. How had he been vague about protecting the pair of them?! Though... to be honest, maybe he had been a bit brusque. Or given the wrong impression to protect his reputation, as so often happened. He had thought it would be fine, but then they had disappeared without warning, somewhere beyond the range of his tracking device. Which was far, indeed. Not that he had worried about them, of course. He only thought of them every now and then, wondering where they had gone, or if they had found and destroyed the device, which he had given up checking signals on a matter of months ago.

"Trelos?" he demanded. "Where is that?"

But Dritz had leaned around to greet Orion, going so far as to slap him on the shoulder and address him as friend!

"What?" Fera hissed, pushing back around to the human's side and grabbing his arm protectively. "You don't know him, don't act so familiar! And certainly don't touch him, you-"

"Fera," Orion sighed, gently extracting himself. "Listen, I should have told you before we came here. I do know Dritz and Vela, I met them before I met you, here on the station. They're good people, and helped me when I was down on my luck. I didn't know whether you would agree to come if I told you about them, but I see I was wrong. The relationship between you all is deeper than I knew about."

"You- you-" Fera stammered, horrified, chest beginning to heave again. "I suppose you are all against me. Is this a trap? Have you all set me up? I can defend myself!"

All he was actually thinking about doing was storming off in a huff, but they didn't need to know that. Orion was shaking his head, looking to Dritz for help, and the Vela was acting strangely detached, staring at the trees as though the rest didn't much concern her. Fera glared at Dritz as though daring him to speak again. But if they really were against him...

Dritz turned a gentle gaze to Fera, looking almost hurt, "Hey, whatever you think of us, I've never hurt anyone, let alone my friends. Which you and Orion are. And please, do not suggest Vela would ever do anything of the sort either." He glanced between the other two, vaguely aware of Vela to his side, examining the faux foliage. In any other situation, he would be quietly (or perhaps loudly) gushing over how utterly adorable that was. As it happened, he was just slightly too upset to concentrate on her endearing awe, and resolved to contemplate her later on.

"Listen, us and Ori, we met a little while back. Helped him out, got to chatting. It was great, I think we hit it off pretty quickly. You have a lovely partner here, prince. Even if you don't trust my word, trust his. Come on," Dritz sighed. He looked at Orion desperately, "Maybe we could find somewhere quiet, and we can explain how we all met? Wouldn't that be nice?"

Despite himself, Fera could feel himself calming the longer Dritz spoke. Any praise for Orion was fine with him, as long as it was being acknowledged they were a couple. And there was no actual reason for him to distrust any of them. Along with Orion's soft and pleading look asking him to agree, one hand now resting against his back... Well, he couldn't say no, at this point.

"Nice," Fera repeated, pouting just the same. "Lovely, I'm sure." He let himself be guided along by Orion as they all walked on in search of a more quiet corner of the gardens with fewer patrons. Once a suitable area was found, Fera cringed back from the idea of sitting on the floor, but Orion offered his jacket and that was slightly more tolerable. He arranged himself fussily on top of it, legs folded to one side, sliding his eyes quickly away to see the Vela sit so close to Dritz as they leaned against one of the support pillars. Perhaps she had him under some kind of spell, which might be fascinating to learn about later on.

"Explain," he demanded sharply, not about to let any of them off so easily until he was satisfied.

"Well," Orion began with the slightest sigh, "I had come to Hesperus on a job offer, one that turned out to be false. Some lowlife having fun at my expense. But I'd used the last of my fuel to get here, didn't have any credits, any food, was having problems with my ship... I happened to run into Dritz and Vela. They offered to assist with the ship repair, then helped me with fuel and a bit to eat along the way. I said I'd return someday to try to repay them and... here they are. Wasn't sure I would find them, it was just a coincidence I ran into them where I was eating last night. This wouldn't be so awkward for you right now if you'd just come along."

Fera ignored the last part, not regretting a decision to stay out of some low-class eatery. He folded his arms and shifted his glare to Dritz, still ignoring the Vela, as intent as ever on the trees above her. Though, actually... that was a little disturbing, too.

"I suppose that's a... charming story. And maybe now you can explain how you ran off after I said I'd offer my protection against the Merrgani, making me think you'd been captured, or... or killed." Immediately he regretted saying this, as it showed he might actually care what happened to them. Which was absolutely not true.

He shifted his angry gaze to the same tree the Vela was looking at, though jerked it away just as quickly. What if she was cursing the hologram to curse him through it?

Of course Dritz took Vela's hand immediately, lacing their fingers together. What was wrong with trying to make the most of them being in the hologardens together, even if they also had company? Of course, he also took notice of Orion being a complete gentleman and laying his jacket out for Fera. Dritz contemplated doing the same for Vela, but had the strangest feeling the Aurian would not enjoy that the idea came from something related to Fera. That, and he knew how she liked the simulated grass.

Poor Orion was definitely trying, he could see.

"It would have definitely been nice to see you there last night," Dritz added in a lightheartedly chiding tone. His expression softened, but he couldn't help the slightest pang of victory. Or something similar.

"You were worried about us, Your Highness?" he asked, putting one hand to his chest, "I'm so flattered! We like you too."

After a beat, he nodded, "Well... I don't know that it's my place to explain on her behalf, so perhaps you'd like to ask Vela your questions about why we decided to leave for Trelos?"

Fera turned his head haughtily at the suggestion that he should have gone the previous evening, though turned back again quickly at what Dritz said next. "No!" he snapped. "I wasn't worried about you in the slightest. Why should I be?"

When faced with having to ask the Vela his questions, however... he faltered for a time. His eyes darted back and forth as though he wasn't sure where to look before settling on a space a short distance above her head. "Ah... well. Why did you go to Trelos... wherever that is." His mumbling awkwardness was out of character for him, and he could feel Orion's gaze, distinctly amused, which made him flush with an irritated heat. How was he supposed to trust that she couldn't steal his soul if he looked right at her strange signing?

On her part, Vela was fine with Fera's apparent discomfort with her. It might mean he would leave her alone more. She regarded him soberly, signing right at him because it made him look even more uncomfortable when she did, though it did mean Dritz had to lean around to see her properly. [We went because I would like to consider Trelos as a new home for the Aurians. We had talks with one of their leaders and made some progress, but it will need some time for them to accept the idea, if they do. Next we will need to visit Aurctas to convince my people, and Chrysala to obtain some further assistance. Dritz has been kind enough to agree to help with the entire process.] She couldn't help but give him a fond glance, reaching to clasp his hand again once she had finished what she wanted to say.

"And what was that?" Fera demanded of Dritz, finding it far more convenient to have to address someone else. "Don't leave anything out."

Pleased, Dritz had sat back to survey the situation unfolding, but soon realised he could not see Vela's signing properly from where he was, and leaned forward, watching her closely. Her praise for him caused a far wider grin than he had previously held, and he kissed her hand gently before turning to Fera.

He took his time, signing exactly as she had, since Fera didn't seem to trust the Aurian's words, "We went because Vela wanted to consider Trelos as a new home for her people. We had talks with one of their leaders and made some progress, but it will need some time for them to accept the idea, if they do-" He turned to Vela and added, "Which I think they will. Next we need to visit Aurctas to convince them, and then to Chrysala for further assistance."

Preening a bit, he added, "The last part was about me being helpful."

As helpful as the explanation was, Fera couldn't help but think about how he could do without displays of affection between the Chrysalan and the Aurian. It wasn't that they were bad to look at, but he had by now halfway convinced himself the Vela had some form of mind control over Dritz. Maybe he was only able to learn this strange language after she had worked her strange magic over him...

"Oh. Well. That's interesting." Fera managed to sound completely unconcerned, though it was the slightest bit interesting. "But I don't see why I wasn't told first. I'm the most important, after all, and it makes sense to tell me, when I specifically said-"

To his dismay, Orion began to speak, though it was in a gentle way which didn't sound annoyed. "Prince, I hate to inform you, but you're not the center of the universe. Coronus, maybe, when you're there. And my own personal universe, well..." He seemed to realize he was indulging in romantic talk again, quickly clearing his throat while Fera pretended to glare. "But my point is, Vela and Dritz are free to do as they like. Maybe they misunderstood how invested you were in their protection. And this is a very serious thing, the Aurians are suffering and need a new home. You understand, don't you?"

Fera grit his teeth slightly for a moment, knowing it made sense, but not liking to be told he wasn't the most important ever. "I guess I do," he said with a loud sigh, readjusting himself atop Orion's jacket. "But now what? You don't need my protection, you've got your own tasks to attend to, why are we even here? We have nothing to do with each other." Thinking he had a real, legitimate point, he gave Orion a triumphant look, only to be dismayed to see the human merely shaking his head.

"Well?" he demanded of Dritz next, thinking he would receive a better answer.

Without realising, Dritz had leaned forward again, lacing his fingers in Vela's and stroking her hand, and was regarding the two men with a look of pure adoration. For all his deep flaws (hey, everyone has 'em, after all), Fera was actually cute in the context of Orion. They fit together in a pleasing way, visually and seemingly emotionally. He was smiling warmly at them both, but his reverie was quickly stifled and he blinked at the pink haired prince.

"Well... I was under the impression that we were friends. We're hanging out, aren't we? Y'know... spending time with each other? Like what you do with friends?" the Chrysalan said, his gaze completely disbelieving. "I mean... is that not what this is? You were worried about us enough to be mad at us for being alive, and I can't speak for Vela, but I think this is quite nice. Or it could be." At that moment he looked pointedly at Fera, as if to add if you took the salt out of your tone.

With a playful wave of his free hand, he added, "And anyway, even if you don't care to be here, Ori does."

"This wasn't my idea!" Fera bristled immediately, sitting up absolutely straight. "I was tricked into coming here to spend time with you. Unless that's your idea of being friends. And I don't think this is nice, not at all. This dated technology-" he paused to gesture around "-and the theme is frankly quite boring. What's the use of a holographic garden, exactly? Who needs plants, especially fake ones? And another thing, I wasn't worried about you. I told you that. Not in the slightest."

"Listen, Fera-" Orion began earnestly, already reaching out as though to try soothing him through touch. But he didn't feel like having any of it, for now.

"No," he cut in abruptly, getting to his feet with a graceful motion. "You heard Dritz. You like being here. So you can have it." He turned on his heel to saunter away with what he felt was reasonable confidence, aware he was making a scene, but enjoying it at the same time as almost feeling... bad. But he wasn't normal, not like the rest of them. They might not actually need him around, anyway.

Meanwhile, Orion seemed to have temporarily given up, sitting with his legs crossed and elbows propped against them, resting his head in his hands a few moments. "I'm sorry," he muttered to Dritz and Vela. "I'm really, really sorry. I guess I thought it would go better..."

Dritz frowned for a brief moment before hopping to his feet. He looked apologetically at the two of them, "Sorry, I can't just... I mean... I'll be back in a second. Promise!"

He jogged up behind Fera, tapping him gently on the shoulder, "Hey, wait a sec, please?" He fell into step next to the Coronal, doing his best to keep up, looking equally apologetic towards him, "I'm sorry, okay? I was just being silly. You go if you like, but I wasn't joking about it being nice to see you. When you're not being so spikey, you're pretty good company. I'm sorry if I upset you, 'k? But, look.... when you're rude to Vela, I get a bit spikey myself. So yeah, I'm sorry." He offered Fera a goofy grin, already taking a step back, "We good? Good. Okay, cool, see ya later?"

He gave a quick wave, turning and jogging back to the others and plopping back down next to Vela. "Sorry, I didn't want him to go without apologising. I didn't mean to upset him so much," he chuckled, settling. What was it they had been saying before he ran off? "Don't be sorry, we'll work on him. There's probably something going on we don't know about, or maybe he was just looking forward to the two of you being alone?"

If that were the case, Fera and Vela would be more similar than they thought.

Orion watched with a small amount of dismay as Dritz went after Fera, though it was likely just to apologize. He knew better than to go after the prince himself, for now, as he wouldn't be welcome until he had calmed further.

"It's probably nothing you did specifically, but thank you for trying to talk to him," Orion said with a sigh. He leaned back on his hands, looking up at the simulated blue sky above him and thinking a while. "He probably ignored you for the most part? That's what I thought. Like I've said before... he's really, really not so bad. But it's hard to see that sometimes. And it might have been he was thinking we'd be alone, yeah." It had definitely been a mistake not to tell Fera that Dritz and Vela would be waiting for them, but there was no real way to have known that prior.

"We do need to work on him, I agree. As long as you're up for it? It would mean a lot to me. I've learned a bit about him while we've been together. See..." Orion frowned heavily, finding it was still difficult to think about. "As a prince on Coronus, life was very... different. Royalty aren't treated the way everyone else is. They're free to talk among themselves, and talk as much as they want to anyone else... But commoners aren't allowed to talk to them. I think Fera's been very lonely for years, and is definitely over-privileged, so once he got away from Coronus he didn't know how to behave around regular folk like us." His frown turned into a wry smile. "Sometimes he finds a delight in manipulating or being rude to others, but it doesn't extend to his heart. He has a good heart, but doesn't want anyone to know about it. Probably thinks it's a sign of weakness."

Shaking his head, he poked one finger at a blade of fake grass, watching it go straight through. "The real problem is, how do we get him to change? I mean, he doesn't have to change completely. If I'm being honest, there's a sort of humor in his sarcasm at times. And he wouldn't be Prince Fera if he wasn't at least a little fussy." He realized his fondness was showing again, but shrugged it off this time. "I want us all to be friends, because I like it when we're together. I've never stayed somewhere long enough to have been in a group of friends like this. I wonder if there's even any way."

He snuck a glance at the others, seeing Dritz was very intent on his every word, while Vela was still watching the trees, though with her head tilted in a manner which gave away her attention. There was an extra awkwardness between the Aurian and Coronal which he couldn't put his finger on at the moment, but that was a sort of lesser problem for now. At least Vela wasn't completely disinterested.

The prince of Coronus had indeed ignored him, Orion was of course correct. It seemed a bit over the top, but Dritz supposed he himself wasn't exactly reasonable when he was hurt and frustrated either, so let it slide.

"Of course. Thing is, there's only so much of him being rude to Vela that I can tolerate," Dritz said seriously, snaking a hand around Vela's slim waist and pulling her near. "I want us all to be friends. He needs to work on how he treats her."

The Chrysalan soon quietened and listened with increasing emotion. He felt for Fera, with such an isolating start in life, and thought once more that he and Orion were definitely a good fit for one another, hoping the scruffy human would inject a little of his own good nature into the prince.

"Maybe... Maybe he could spend time with each of us separately? Doing something he likes? When is he most relaxed, mebbe we could be part of that?" he asked with a shrug, hoping something better came to him soon.

"Understandable," Orion said with a fond smile, watching Dritz pull Vela close to him. She nestled against his side in a way that seemed unconcerned with the situation, and did not offer any input. He had the suspicion that she could take care of herself when it came to Fera, but he didn't want to make light of the Chrysalan's concerns.

"I think we can all be friends. Starting slowly is definitely a key. Fera is... picky. I dunno that's a strong enough word. He doesn't have hobbies, as such... He's very fond of fashion. I wish he'd look at me the way he looks at expensive clothing, sometimes," he added with a semi-joking chuckle. "I'm not sure if he'd enjoy a shopping trip with you, but... maybe." Orion found himself laughing again. "He also likes to visit clubs, which I guess could be considered a hobby which I could do with him liking less. But he does enjoy it. You should see him dance..." Lost in the thought of that for a moment, he cleared his throat as he came out of his reverie. "But he also will drink quite a lot there. He's, uh... a lot more relaxed when he's had a few drinks. I'd just kind of hate to have him near drunk every time we hang out."

Shaking his head a second time, he looked back toward Dritz again. "It could be an option for the next time we're all together, though? At least once or twice, so he's a little more mellow. In the meantime, uh... you could ask him if he wants to visit the fashion district with you alone? You have pretty different tastes, but.. I think he enjoys looking at anything." For some reason he also thought Dritz enjoyed fashion, but that was only because every time he saw the Chrysalan he was wearing a different brightly-colored outfit in strange combinations which oddly seemed to work for him.

"Oh yeah?" Dritz asked slyly, eyeing Orion as his mind had clearly wandered to a softly lit room where Fera was dancing for him. He chuckled. He could certainly imagine how good Fera might look while dancing; his body was long and lithe, and he clearly had the grace to make it alluring. A quiet part of his mind replaced the thought of Fera's dance to one of Vela dancing in a similar fashion.

"Well, we definitely have something in common! I've noticed a couple of parts of his ensembles that I'd consider for myself," he giggled, "But in different colours. Of course." He smirked, running a hand through his hair as he listened.

He beamed at the suggestion, nodding eagerly, "Aaaah, that would be great. I don't know if he'll want to shop with me, but if you think it'd be a good idea, then I definitely would enjoy that. Considering it's only a station, Alpha has some really nice, upscale places that I can see him enjoying. Of course, I don't usually go anywhere near those ones!"

"Alright, good," Orion said in relief, glad to have the idea so easily accepted by Dritz. For the first time that night it felt like he was beginning to relax. "Well, if he doesn't jump at the idea, I'll work on him. But maybe you'd do better to ask him first instead of me, based on tonight. Maybe the mention of clothes will be enough. He has a real genuine sort of enthusiasm about shopping," he added with a slight laugh. "I think it might make him more relaxed around you, even if not right away."

He looked at Vela thoughtfully, still unable to tell what was going on in her mind. It could be surprisingly difficult when someone couldn't talk out loud, he was discovering. "I know Fera is generally rude to everyone a lot of the time," he said to her. "But there's this extra emotion behind the way he treats you. Fear, almost? Except... I'm not sure why that'd be. Anyway, it would be impossible for the two of you to spend time alone together when he can't understand your signing, and probably wouldn't have the patience for reading everything typed out. So I don't know what to do there."

[He doesn't like me,] Vela signed simply. [It doesn't matter much to me.] She almost added "I don't like him either," but thought that would be unfair for Dritz to have to translate. Despite her issues with the Coronal, she didn't want either Dritz or Orion to be upset further.

"Well, we'll probably have to wait for a while to get him to agree to even speak to e again so soon, but maybe when he's in a more amicable mood... Or he might even be in a more amicable mood once we suggest it! I think I'll have a good time, I just hope he does too," Dritz said with a comically exaggerated grimace.

He translated for Orion, pouting slightly in sympathy for Vela. "The language barrier is awkward. It's not fair to them for me to be there to translate everything either, otherwise that would be my suggestion. Fera either doesn't trust me to be telling him the truth, or he doesn't trust Vela to not be able to speak aloud." The Chrysalan shrugged, sighing.

"But... How could anyone be afraid of you?" he asked, turning to Vela in surprise. "You're my cute little flower! We'll help him see that."

[He doesn't like my signing either,] Vela guessed. [He won't really look at it.] Whether that was out of fear, Vela didn't know, but in a way it was nice to have some sort of control over Fera. She didn't think it would bother her if he never became friendly with her, though obviously Dritz and Orion would like him to. Something she wouldn't be signing out was that she still thought he was annoying and fairly horrible, no matter what his background might be.

"Well, we'll think of something," Orion said with a sigh, though he definitely seemed amused by Dritz's pet names for Vela. "Meanwhile, I'll make sure he's around for you to ask about the shopping in the next few days, if possible. But speaking of manners, I've not asked you about what your schedules are yet. I know you're wanting to head back to Aurctas and Chrysala and all that, and I'd hate to get in the way."

[We can't go yet,] Vela signed slowly. She hadn't discussed this topic yet with Dritz, but she supposed now was as good a time as any to bring it up. [Actually... I think we'll need more credits than what we have. The trip to Trelos was expensive. I had a lot of credits, but not enough for living expenses along with three trips to different planets, I suppose.] They were in no danger of running out soon, but the future did need to be planned for, and they definitely needed more to make it to Aurctas. She looked at Dritz sadly, knowing he would have to propose the course of action for obtaining more credits. What could she do personally to help? She thought she had no specific skills to speak of.

"Yeah, I dunno what that could possibly mean," Dritz said, turning to engage Vela with a look of exaggerated confusion, "Almost a little... y'know, xenophobic? I mean... it's how you speak. So weird." Without thinking much, he gave Vela a firm kiss on the forehead, smiling, "We'll get you two on speaking terms."

He had been about to answer Orion, but the movement to his side stopped him and he looked at Vela. "Ah, really? Uh oh." He turned back. "It seems we'll be on the station for a while longer, anyway! Fine by me, I could do with flexing my muscles a bit, keep all my repair knowledge fresh in the mind and all that! Vela and I don't have enough funds to make it to any of our next destinations yet, so we'll be around while we earn. Maybe it'll be a good chance for all four of us to get to know each other a little better."

He cuddled the Aurian against him, shaking his head at her. Much as he liked Orion, it wasn't the time to properly reassure Vela, and so he would need to talk through their plans with her privately.

"Well," Orion replied with a slight smile. "I can assure you that whatever else Prince Fera is, he's not xenophobic. Not that you were accusing him of it, but it looks that way on the surface in this case. It must be something else, I'll try to figure it out in the meantime."

He leaned back again, watching the pair in front of him with amusement. He almost envied how easily they got along and how comfortable they were in their behavior toward each other. "I've said it before, but you two are much too adorable together. But yeah, that sounds good. Making some money is what I'm aiming to do for now, as well. In fact I've already scouted out a few places, if you'd like to come along tomorrow morning and have a look? There are multiple jobs on offer."

Getting to his feet, he reached to touch both of them on the shoulder as they stood along with him. "With that, I think I'd better get going for the night, see where Fera's got himself off to and let you guys talk and spend some time together. Thank you both so much for joining us here tonight, even if it didn't work out as well as it might. It's a start."

Orion took his leave after they said goodbye, with Dritz promising they would be around tomorrow morning to look into getting work. They sat down near each other again, and Vela spent a long moment with her arms wrapped around the Chrysalan's waist and her face pressed against his chest, thinking to herself.

[What should I do to earn money?] she signed earnestly when she finally pulled away. [You can find engineering work but... There's nothing I'm skilled at. At least nothing useful on a station.] The thought had troubled her for some time now, but she had never wanted to address it because of that.

Dritz waved his free hand, "I know it's not that, don't worry. True xenophobia... he wouldn't even be here. And he knows Chrysalan." Dritz seemed to be speaking aloud to himself for a moment when he added, "Had a good dialect too, very good enunciation. It was a pleasant surprise."

The Chrysalan's antennae flickered gently, almost curiously as he smirked at Orion. "We are? Well... I think we are!" he laughed.

Hearing that there might be the chance to work together on jobs, Dritz perked up, looking more serious, "Oh yeah? That sounds good. We can meet you outside our building; the west tower of apartments, near the accommodation office, since I assume you're staying here too? Unless you have a more... luxurious place to sleep now." He gave Orion a brief wink before pulling him into a big hug, slapping his back affectionately.

With the human gone, he and Vela were left to tangle their bodies together once more, closer than ever. He cocked his head by way of response, "You wanna help me, learn some stuff? I mean, there's usually places that need cleaning staff, cooking, waiting, small administration roles... do you fancy any of those?"

Vela nuzzled her face into Dritz's neck momentarily, still thinking over the options. She thought she would be able to learn how to do anything, and maybe someday she would try those other jobs, but for now it might be better to stay near the Chrysalan.

[I can help you?] she asked, pulling herself away. [How would that be possible? I have no engineering skills, just enough to put my ship back together, which was very specific and old technology. I'm not sure why someone would want to hire me in addition to you.] She frowned, now beginning to fret about that as well.

[It's possible the Merrgani are still around, somewhere. Or they could come back. If I can stay with you for now, it might be for the best. It's hard to believe they've given up until we know for sure.] She waited for Dritz to explain how it might be possible for them to remain together, absently smoothing her fingers over the fabric at his waist.

"You, my darling, are tremendously intelligent and adaptable," he said firmly, punctuating each word with a kiss, on her cheek, her forehead, her lips. "We will run through the basics together, I'll teach you as we go, and I think you learn by doing, so we'll get you doing the easy fixes with my instructions."

He spread his hands with a beam, "There are very few folk looking to hire a mechanic that object to an apprentice! As far as they know, they're just paying me, you're helping me out. My highly important consultant on alien tech." He winked at her.

"As for those gross fish guys, I won't let them get anywhere near you," he said seriously, pulling her into a big hug, burying his face in her considerably less fluffy hair. "We'll work hard, and we'll get outta here and back on with our mission in no time."

Dritz's attempts to reassure Vela and soothe her worries were just as effective as usual. It went beyond the words, to the gestures such as kissing her and holding her close. She relaxed to know they might stay together as they worked for now, and he would help keep her safe should any more trouble arise with the Merrgani. Perhaps she could have survived on her own, but Dritz made it all so much easier. There was no proper way to express her thanks for this, however.

They remained quiet a little while after he had spoken, just holding on to each other. Vela listened to Dritz's soft breaths as she rubbed one hand up and down his back, finally pulling away to smile at him. [Thank you,] she signed, making the gesture more formal. [I would like working with you, and learning how to fix simple problems. Meanwhile I will do more research, I think in scientific areas... I would like to come up with a better form of space travel for the Aurians. I think I can do it, rather than borrowing from other races. It's fascinating to me.]

She felt a little shy to admit this, covering up for it by giving Dritz another lingering kiss. [The garden is beautiful, but we should go back to our rooms now. We have a bath to take before bed, after all.] Her smile was definitely more flirtatious as her hand returned to his shirt, gently tugging the hem.

"Oh yeah?" Dritz's eyes were bright and full of excitement as he looked at her, clearly encouraged by her signs. "That... actually sounds like a great idea. I think you could really achieve something amazing for the Aurians. Is there anything I could do to help with that, maybe?" His head buzzed with hope for Vela's people, despite how little he knew about them. He sincerely hoped they knew how hard one of their own children was willing to work to better their lives, without being pressured, or asked, and without any obligation to them, really.

Of course, his thoughts were interrupted by decidedly less scientific ones when she flashed her delightfully flirtatious smile at the mention of their bath, "Oh, you're right... I would just hate to miss such a thing!"

He stood, offering her a hand, scooping her up into his arms when she took it.