Bel, Erskin, and Jethro: Be celebrities.

"I'm fine," you grumble, gingerly shifting your weight around. "And anyway how is it going to go, is Bel going to push me? Are you? I can't go around getting pushed like a cullbait wiggler in front of everyone in this godforsaken hivecluster, I'd rather chew my other leg off. Do they have a fourwheel device that electrocutes anyone who tries to push you?"

There's a noise from the bathroom, and by the time Bel pokes his fussy, shiny head out the door, you're standing up very straight and even, glaring at him and Jethro both.

 

Bel looks between you and Erskin like 'what? idgi??' and you roll your eyes. "I'll push you," you offer, "and Bel's gonna do his murderface thing at anybody don't get outta your way, an' you can just sit there like the Empress on a throne, all like Hell yes I hiked my leg actually off, let's see you lot be half as bloody hardcore!" Your Erskin impression is 'spot on', if you do say so yourself.

 

"I can do my own murderface thing!" you protest. "And I don't sound like that at all!" but you get bundled into the fourwheel device regardless, which apparently folds up and leans against a wall when not in use.

You wheel it forwards. You wheel it backwards. You wheel it in a circle. Bel gets too close and you run over his foot.

"This is alright," you conclude.

 

You might exaggerate your reaction to having your foot run over just a little bit, to make him feel better. He's an asshole, but he's your asshole.

Wait, that doesn't sound quite right.

You check you haven't left anything important in the room, since apparently you're being moved to an even fancier one, and hold the elevator door for Erskin so he can scowl at you for it, and ask the concierge where you ought to have lunch. You get a little booklet of local restaurants. You and Erskin bicker cheerfully over where to eat while a porter holds the outer door open and Jethro tries to put a knit hat on Erskin's head.

The wet, thick snow from yesternight has been covered overday by a fluffy layer of pure white, and feathery flakes are still falling. It's... nice, actually. You think you might be sort of happy just for the moment.

 

Bel wins the restaurant argument by virtue of minding standing around arguing in the cold the least, and you hunch up against the wind and grumble while he and Jethro go about procuring transportation.

A short girl wearing an admirable lack of clothing sidles up to you through the snow, a tall camera-goggled lowblood treading close behind. "Laney Gawker," she says, sticking her hand out. "We met the last time you swung through here. Liked it enough to come back for seconds, huh? Thinking about moving in somewhere?"

You shake her hand. "Oh, hello again! No, we're just stopping over for a few nights, we'll sort out where to go after that. Say, are you the same outfit that Bel was threatening?"

Ms Gawker and her camera troll look at one another. "Yes," she says. "Yeah, that's probably us!"

"Would you like to come along for lunch?" you ask. "We're going out for fancier foods than might be procured from street vendors, I'm afraid to say, but I shouldn't mind seeing you and my dear kismesis get to know one another better."

"Oh my god," she says, and giggles. "Really? Yeah, we'd love to! You're picking up the tab, right? Blogging doesn't pay that many bills."

"I should like nothing more than to treat a bold and valiant pair of mediarsonists such as yourselves to a hard-earned lunch," you assure her. "But you have to ask Bel as many obnoxious questions as possible."

"Deal," Ms Gawker says, and bounces on her toes, grinning from ear to ear. Even the quiet, bony camera troll looks pleased.

"Hallo, Bel," you greet your dread nemesis, on his return. "I invited a few friends along to our lunch date. Hope that isn't too much of an imposition!"

"Mr Kadros," says Ms Gawker, intently. "Do you do butt stuff?"

You cackle.

 

You return in a much larger rental flyer than the one you've been living in for the past while, with room for the four-wheeled device -- and, fortunately, for several guests, because your rival seems to be embracing his new party-boy persona.

Poker-faced, you take in Erskin's glee and Jethro's facepalm, and decide how you're going to play this: "Absolutely," you tell her solemnly. "All the butt stuff. Do I look to you like a troll who's daunted by any orifice? I even do this asshole here." You blow Erskin a kiss, then hit the auto-open button for the back doors. "Get in, loser, we're going touristing."

 

"Ouch!" you say, actually feeling something close to cheerful, and wheel yourself in. It's a tight fit but you get to pull Jethro down on your lap for the ride, which isn't nothing, and Ms Gawker insinuates herself into the front passenger seat beside Bel and continues to ask a variety of crude and invasive personal questions. The camera troll hunches in a corner and looks profoundly shy.

"Y'know, we might be battleready like this," you say thoughtfully, rubbing your cheek against Jethro's hair. "You shoot and I'll steer, what?"

 

"I'm honored to be your turret gunner, babe," you grin, and mime using a two-handle machine gun like in the old war vids: dundundundun!

You keep your moirail laughing on the short drive to the restaurant, helped along by Bel's surprising adeptness at turning Gawker's questions into a game of snark tennis without giving away anything actually private, like personal details about his moirail's life. He gets in plenty more jabs at Erskin, but they're all good-natured, and Erskin tosses back a few of his own. "I'm glad you invited these guys, bro," you tell Erskin after a bit, "they're fun."

At your destination, Bel strides off ahead while you're still helping Erskin navigate ice chunks at the curb, and comes back in time to hold the door and announce smugly that he's arranged a table with a mountain view.

"Can Paw come in with us?" You look to your lusus, who's doing his very best cuddly-and-innocent act with Reggie perched on his head. "I'm a lil bit worried somebody's gonna mistake him for a regular ice bear an' take a shot at him if we leave him out here.."

 

"I don't know why a dining establishment this snobby wouldn't accommodate their clientele's lusii," you shrug. "But if they don't want to we can just turret gun them until we change their minds, what?"

 

You make finger-guns at your lusus -- "Pchow!" -- and he lopes with great dignity into the restaurant, clearing the way for the rest of you.

As it happens, no one bats an eye, and there are a number of other lusii in the place. Many of them shrink back or hide behind their charges at the sight of yours, and you can't help but be proud of how fearsome he is, and also how well-behaved. He's not used to being around so many trolls, but he seems to have decided they're all beneath his notice. You're shown to a large alcove with a flagstone fireplace burning aromatic wood. Once Paw has seen you all safely seated, he flops down on the hearth rug. When the waiter brings water glasses for everyone, he also brings floor bowls for Paw and Reggie.

You confide in your moirail, "I ain't never been somewhere this fancy. You'll tell me if I'm doin' it wrong, won'tcha?"

 

You get a tremendous case of the giggles. "I haven't either," you tell him. "I've never even stayed in such an absurdly deluxe waystem before! When I was traveling I ate what I caught and I slept where I could get out of the rain—this dining situation's all on Kadros, the extravagant snob. I bet he wants to see me figure out which fork goes in what cut of grubloaf."

 

"Now, Erskin, I would never do that to you," you say airily. "It'd be like playing dodgeball with a shellbeast. I'd never miss and you'd never mind." In a less teasing tone you go on, "Anyway, I wanted to come here because they supposedly do the most amazing sashimi platters, and those are chopstick food. Vegetable sashimi? Is that a thing?" You show the menu to Lainey's camera guy, since he's been kinda neglected so far. "Genius or folly? I can't tell. Let's order three."

The poor guy's reply is inaudible.

 

"Leave him alone," you tell Bel. "He's a background sort of chap, isn't he?" The camera troll nods earnestly and continues attempting to hide behind his water glass. "Anyway order me a couple of everything and some of the rice wine, too. I didn't even know you could get wine out of rice, you learn something new every night."

The meal goes well, you think, inasmuch as you don't particularly mind being surrounded by strangers while you're stuck in a cripple's mobility device, or at least you don't mind after enough grain alcohol. And enough sweet, luxurious cuts of seafood to feed an armada, you shouldn't think, for all that a good portion goes to Reggie, who climbs on to your lap and props his little webbed front feet on the table very politely. He's so thin, you can't help but give him anything he points his beak at, and to preen his rough, dry wings between courses. What even happened to him?

Eventually you're all down to slices of fruit shaped like flowers and soaked in syrup, and you are leaning against Jethro in possibly an inappropriate manner, though it's a bit hard to give half a fuck. He takes away the last of your rice wine, you kiss his horn, someone loudly and awkwardly clears their throat, and conversation turns to where, exactly, you're thinking of going next.

"Mm. Back to my castle, I s'pose," you say, and wave a blurry hand. "Put my heels up. Write a book. I don't know."

"No," Ms Gawker says, "I mean in town. You guys can't take off so soon, you just got here, like, yesterday!"

 

"Once Erskin's up for it, we'll be looking in on an engineer friend of mine for a replacement prosthetic. Because somebody thinks he's an all-terrain vehicle instead of a troll made out of mostly meat," you tease with a light nudge to Erskin's elbow, feeling as mellow from sake as everyone else seems to be. "Goes through metal legs like they're -- like they're -- disposable. I think he'll like the one I commissioned for him, though, or at least he'll have a hard time wrecking it. In the meantime I guess we could see the sights, if there are sights to see. Had enough rough terrain for a while. Right?" You throw your arm around Erskin's shoulders and give him a fond little shake. "'Nuff sleepin' in the flyer. 'Nuff smellin' like cordite. We should just relax."

"Hear, hear," Jethro says, draining the last of Erskin's wine. "Too early inna season for ice fishin' anyhow."

 

"I think we've all had enough fish for a while, anyway," you yawn, and push one of your horns to clack up against his, and smile when he takes a sharp breath. "Well. Except for me. If anyone gets tired of me I will be severely offended. Where's the bill?"

It's brought over, you maneuver Bel out of the way and sign for it, have whatever's left boxed up for Ms Gawker's syladex— notepad fetch modus, very tidy— and complacently allow yourself to be pushed out of the building. The icy wind snaps you to something like alertness, and you wave Ms Gawker over.

"I say, what's your handle? You can show us around, right?"

"YES," she says instantly. "It's darlingDatamancer."

"FlintlockGallivant. But don't spread it around."

"My flap's locked. But ok, you absolutely, positively, no-fooling-around gotta buy me more lunches if you want me to play tourguide."

"Not a problem. D'you need a ride home?"

The camera troll tugs the strap of her top, very gently, and when she looks back he's blushing a dark yellow and shuffling his feet.

"Nah, we'll walk," she says. "Good for digestion. You guys take care of yourselves!" And she takes her camera fellow's hand and hauls him off into the snow.

"Pale or red, d'you think? They're adorable," you comment to Jethro, pulling him close to take his hand too, then indulgently kissing his warm fingers.

 

"Not as adorable as you," Jethro says, and then yelps when you flink them both upside the heads.

"Get in the flyer, quit dropping diamonds on the sidewalk," you grumble. Once you're en route, you admit grudgingly, "Fine, I admit, Gawker's okay. And her camera guy is a cutie, though I'm obviously a little biased. Leggy goldbloods, you know."

"Mm," says someone absently from the back seat.

"Oh for crying out loud, you guys!"

 

You giggle, warm and dizzy, and kick the back of Bel's seat.

"Prude!" you say cheerfully. "You didn't much care when it was you taking me in front of him— ah! Hello, do that again."

Jethro obligingly does the thing with his hands and your horns and just a bit of psionic pressure again and you dissolve into blissfully careless purring, your hands up his shirt to knead at the stiff muscles of his lower back.

 

"He'd already left the block, you --"

"Naw, you started afore I left," Jethro corrects absently, then goes back to purring into Erskin's hair.

"Oh my god. You guys, really."

They manage to disengage when you reach the hotel, at least long enough to get out of the flyer. You go off to park it by yourself; you can't watch them embarrass themselves in front of the hotel staff. When you come back, they're nowhere to be seen; you get the number of the new room and go up alone.

It's the penthouse suite. Of course it is.

You let yourself in, open your mouth to comment on -- something that was probably important, but it's gone now, because good grief, Jethro and Erskin are going at it like gangbusters on the big crescent-shaped couch. Papping and purring and petting and ugh. It didn't really bother you when Galley and Lu would do this in front of you, but this is your kismesis. They haven't even noticed you're here.

But you know Erskin needs it, and probably Jethro too, so instead of saying anything you just drift off to the respiteblock. There's a nice, plush lounging platform. You troll Pancho, intending to do something responsible like crack Cloris's husktop and give Pancho remote access so she can mine it for contacts. It only takes Pancho a few lines of text to discern that you're sulking, two more to tease the problem out of you, and when she orders you to get out your own husktop instead and livestream a movie with her, you don't bother arguing.

You might maybe cyber a little bit, too. Just a little talk about hair brushing. It is just possible that you brush your own hair and pretend it's her doing it. No one needs to know.

 

Eventually your intimate activities with Jethro fades into sleepy cuddling, then genuine sleep. You walk out the window into the snow and out of the snow into the maze, the garden, but it's different: the snow follows you, skirling along the dead ground, and the hedges are black tangles of thorn against a miserable grey sky.

"Lady," you call, searching one dead end after the next. "Lady, where are you? I'm here..." but there's no sign. Only old bones, showing yellow against the snow, in the depths of the thorn hedges.

"Erskin, dearest," she says, and you turn, run to her, and she catches you up in strong cool arms— "you failed me," she says, and her face comes apart— all of her comes apart, unraveling, and it hurts so badly—

—the buzz of her destruction turns out to be Jethro, when you jolt awake. You're holding him too tightly, and he's starting to flicker and spark as he struggles against you. You release him, confused, and there's marks forming on his bare skin. There's scratches from your nails. He's been speaking to you and you can't understand the words.

You moan and shove away from him, falling off the couch. Every part of you hurts but what hurts more is the sick horror of ochre bruises on your moirail and green blood under your claws. He reaches for you, and you raise your hands to ward him off. You find your voice all in a keening burst: "BEL, HELP!"

 

You come out of sleep -- and out of the recuperacoon -- like a rocket at that yell, and before you're anything like awake you're kneeling at his side and dripping sopor on him.

"It ain't his fault," Jethro's saying. "He's fevered. It's his leg, it's gotta be." He's clutching his left hand to his chest, and the little finger is sticking out at a weird angle.

Erskin looks pretty much completely insane -- and yes, sick -- sweat-soaked and wild-eyed, and you know he could break you easily if he really tried, but you're more durable than Jethro. And he had the presence of mind to call for you. The problem is, you have no idea how to calm him down. Everything you ever did just riled him up more (except for the time you were actually vacillating pale, and that had fallout, and also Jethro is right here). Why have you never obtained a tranquilizer gun?

You flip your sopor-soaked hair forward and wring it out over Erskin's head. Maybe that'll help.