Bel, Erskin, and Jethro: Be celebrities.

You sigh; it's supposed to be exasperation, but it's at least half fondness. "How am I supposed to handle you being an adorable doofus, troubleface? It's really hard to reconcile with the thing where you trash my hotel room." If the noises he makes in return are meant to be a reply, you can't decode them.

"Let him be," Jethro says; he's purring behind his words like a mother cat covered in kittens while he scoops broth into his dozy moirail. "He's been in pain for weeks and it finally done let up, anybody'd drift. Don't none of us need more pain than we got right now." He gives the husktop on your lap a significant glance.

One of your devices looks to be making interesting progress... but you take his point. You shut it and set it aside. You can dig for iniquity later.

 

"I still hurt," you say. "All over. I mean. I'll, I'll be...you know, it's alright, I'm alright. But I don't... I'd rather it. Not be happening, that would be nice, I feel awful." You yawn again. "I want a drink. I love drinks. Good job, drinks."

 

"No drinks. Because I'm a big meanie, that's why."

"Well, non-alcoholic drinks," Jethro puts in.

"Right, those are fine. Drink your salad juice."

"Miz Clarke, is there any reason he can't have some painkillers afore you put that thing on 'im?"

 

"Gneh," is your opinion of salads, but you dutifully swallow it down anyway.

"The less foreign crap rampaging around in his blood, the better, sugarnubs," Clarke says, munching her way through the portion of spider fries. "Even the fever would normally be a risk factor, but since we've prepped right now with fresh blood the bioware's going to be expecting the temperature and antibody level. Anyway it should be good to go in about half an hour, so it's not like your dainty sea flower is going to be tragically fucking tormented, like, forever. Where's my soda?"

 

"Right there, I set it by you." Jethro points. He adds, in a grumbly mutter, "He's already been tragically fuckin' tormented way too fuckin' long."

Secretly you agree, but you're trying to be a good kismesis, so what you say out loud is, "He's tough, it'll take more than this to stop him. Once the bioware's hooked in, if the fever doesn't go down, we can troll Sigs for advice. Or take him to a med center." You ruffle Erskin's hair. "Have you looked at that leg? It's beautiful. Clarke's the best there is."

 

"Wow, kiss my ass, much?" Clarke says, but she sounds pleased. She props the prosthetic against the wall, scrubs her arms down roughly with a towel, and comes to sit beside Jethro with her legs in the water.

"So, hi, who are you, where you from, what's your damage?" she asks him, and takes one of the uneaten spiders off his plate and munches it. "Never seen you around any reenactment jaunts. How'd you end up in Captain Bluebulge's little sadness RPG?"

 

You thought it was obvious, but you point between Bel and Erskin -- "Rivals." -- and Erskin and yourself -- "Moirails. Name's Jethro Makwaa." You offer a handshake. "Is Clarke your first or last?"

 

Clarke briskly shakes his hand with a greasy, still-bloodstained one.

"I like to preserve an air of mystery," she says. "Maybe you'll find out if you ask nice enough sometime. You look like the kind of guy who could manage."

She eats another of his spiders.

 

"Or I could ask Bel."

"Last," Bel grins.

"There ya go," you shrug. "Mystery's overrated." You can tell she's flirting, but you can't tell which quadrant. Her needling approach says black, but she needled the others too. You wonder if she uses fistkind.

 

"You enormous sack of bulges," Clarke says, though not particularly angrily, and punches Bel in the shoulder again. "Betrayed by the top brass. Not that I shouldn't have seen it coming."

She slurps her soda, then knocks the cold can against Jethro's ear. "So. You. Lumberjethro. What's your strifekind? Axe? Chainsaw? You're kinda small for chainsaws. Then again, Mount Kadros here's big enough to be fucking wasted on anything but fistkind so who the fuck even knows anymore. You ever seen him on the field? He ripped a guy's head off once and kicked over a siege fortification. It was hilarious. One of the newbies threw up. I changed sides immediately."

 

So it's black. You can't help grinning a little. "Slingshot for hunting, fistkind for fun. Never seen Bel do reenactment but I done sparred with 'im a little."

"He won," Bel puts in.

"Bel, stop helpin'."

She reaches for your fried spiders again; without looking directly at it, you make whichever one she tries to grab scuttle out from under her fingers. It cracks the breading off, but you were done eating anyhow. You slurp your green juice as loudly as you can, smiling around the straw.

 

Clarke hisses in surprise, draws a red wrench longer than her arm, and smashes the undead spiderfry into a grease smear. Then she punches Jethro in the shoulder.

"Oh my god, you swamp-ass shit-faced necromancer. You're not as cute as you think you are, oh my god. You do that again and I'll bash your fucking head in, swear on my mothergrub."

 

Now you're grinning ear to ear. "It's just a lil' puppet show. Jumpy much?" You make one of the garnish vegetables jump up on a green spark and leap into your mouth. "Nice wrench tho. I'm guessin' your talents ain't limited to prosthetics -- you ever work on ground vehicles?"

 

Clarke takes another spider fry slowly and intently, as if sneaking up on unsuspecting prey. Fry secured, she chomps it down and talks with her mouth full.

"I do the hardware and wetware components, yeah," she says. "That's chitin casement arrays and neural-conduit biotech, specifically. But the inorganic mechanics necessary for combustion engines and external-command control arrays are more Bel's area of interest." She waves a hand dismissively. "Metal wiring's fucking creepy, you know? You gotta plug all this dead shit right into living. Imagine stuffing a lump of iron into someone's eyesocket, it's just nasty. I'm not about that kind of thing."

 

"Hey!" Bel says, and you elbow Clarke in the ribs.

"Watch it, bro," you tell her, "his matesprit's got a camera eye. But okay. I won't offer to show you my prowler then." You grab the decorative twist of orange off the plate and suck the juice out with a long slurp.

 

"What, exactly, is your prowler and why should I be crushed you're playing keepaway, halfpint?" she asks, flicking her gaze dismissively, and pointedly, over Jethro's anatomy. Then she adds, distracted from that line of inquirey, "Okay, wait no. Hold up, who the hell would make a camera eye out of iron? You couldn't mill it fine enough for the necessary lens mechanisms and connective ports, and anyway it'd start to corrode the minute you implanted it. Steel, maybe, if you wanted a semi-functional art job. He never told me his matesprit was a fucking braindead hipster, but that explains a hell of a lot about why he went soft."

She knocks her knee against Bel's. "You need to catch some more good clean wholesome slaughterous fun, captain," she tells him. "Look at you, you look like shit. You're out of shape."

 

"Spent two weeks stalking one target. Personal, not tactical. I don't want to talk about it." You shove your hands through your hair with a sigh. "Can you two ease up on the pitch flirting for just half an hour maybe please. You're giving me a headache. Also my matesprit's eye is surgical steel and glass and why are we discussing it."

Jethro shoves the juice pitcher along the tile tub surround at you. "You oughtta mix yourself a drink. You ain't short on blood."

"I don't even remember where the vodka bottle went. I threw it at Erskin, and then he threw it at me, and then...? Beats me." You realize you're coming dangerously close to whining about how tired you are, and in front of someone outclade to boot. You straighten up. "Anyway, you're pity-drunk on his purring and he's delirious. One of us has to be sober."

 

"Maybe you could knock off your ash flirting," Clarke sniffs, and commandeers the rest of the plate, shoveling it in with the businesslike air of a practiced campaigner. "Also no one's going to be drinking 'till I clear out, this isn't a party. I think the leg's ready to go on, haul your boy out and let's get it over with."

 

"Did you hear that, Erskin? You found something that isn't a party. Achievement unlocked!"

Between the two of you, you and Jethro manage to lift him out of the water without jostling his sore leg overmuch. Jethro supports him and squeezes his shoulder encouragingly: "It gets better after this."

"I think it gets worse for a while briefly, though," you point out, and give Clarke a nod to proceed.

 

You wake up as they drag you out, and whine when you're set down on the dry floor. "Stop it," you protest. "Let me go, I don't go, I, I don't want, like this, no. No."

Unfortunately for you they pat you and croon encouragement and don't let you back in the pool, no matter how you squirm and twist. The red stranger comes over with a leg and— she's installing it, right, alright, you get that, you brace for it, breathing harshly through your fangs.

"I'm billing you double if I walk out of here with so much as a scratch, captain," she says. "Hold him tighter."

Warm fingers grab your hip and something cool and soft strokes your leg. It feels good, after the throbbing, angry heat. It tingles a little, and you huff with surprise. The stranger eases the open end of the black metal up what remains of your leg and the stuff inside slides, coils around, anchors into. Your hip flares with pain and then fades. Cools. You let your head drop back against Jethro's chest, panting, and the casing of the leg is adjusted around your flesh, then set. Not too tight. There's no sharp bite. Things are starting to move around inside of you and you feel something like... alright. Something like being able to catch your breath, uncurl your fists.

"Bend your leg," the girl says, snapping in your face to get your attention, and you oblige her. "Raise it. Lower. Pull your knee to your chest. Push your foot against my hand. Push harder— good. Straighten the ankle out... okay, twist back and forth. Good. You're all set for basic functionality, champ."

"Oh," you say. "Good, alright. Okay." You look at your legs. "Hello."

She stands up and there's some talking— "Dump him back in, he should sleep it off for awhile," —and you're lowered back into the water. You float for a minute, blankly surprised by this turn of events, then make off for the deep end. The dive is done all in one smooth kick and your hip gives you no more trouble than a distant ache and you're asleep nearly as soon as you get to the far corner and curl up.