This is the hive. After so long fruitlessly following cold trails, suddenly everything comes together and it's like Fate tapped you on the shoulder and said, "Now." Of the three hives you'd narrowed the field to based on distance from the shops where Cloris and Erskin were sighted, only two were within the service area of the aircab company Cloris used to fetch Jethro. You didn't get back to Scorpius in time to follow his lusus, but it turns out that in a northern hivecluster like this, an ice bear purposefully trotting down the street is the kind of thing people blog about. Is it someone's lusus, or is it a random predator? Dare you shoot it and find out? Pancho tracked Paw by the tweets he occasioned, and that led you here. To this... incredibly obvious drinker-lair with its absurdly high security, rose vhines worked into the electrified fences, and one last sad pizza drone still ringing the gate buzzer every thirty seconds. The pavement under it is dry; it's been here since before the snow started. Unfortunately, the lawnring is immense, and all the other hives around here have huge lawnrings too. Cloris's garden is too low and manicured to provide any decent cover. The closest place you can set up your sniper nest is a tall tree nearly two kilometers away. Fortunately, despite the slushy drizzle, there isn't much wind, or even that wouldn't be any good because it would sway. The neighbor in whose lawnring the tree grows is having a party. There's a faceted dome attached to the back of the hive, and through the condensation-fogged glass you can vaguely make out trollish shapes splashing in chlorine-blue water. The faint laughter that wafts up to you as you climb the tree (numbed fingers gripping climbing belt, cleat-strapped boots slipping on the moss-slimed bark) is bright, joyful, innocent, not a mean note in it. Why couldn't Cloris have taken Erskin to a party like that, instead of a medication-interaction party at the STD farm? Oh, right, because she's completely foul in every way. Unpacking, assembling, and attaching your collapsible hunting stand while clinging to a wet trunk fifteen meters off the ground is not the sort of process you want to rush. You have to push away thoughts of what Erskin might be going through right now, what might have happened to Jethro, what Galley and Lu are up to, the possibility of someone from the pool party noticing you and alerting the neighborhood or taking potshots -- push away all thoughts except this here now, what's in your hands and before your eyes. As a result, you begin to fall into that peaceful sniper zen state even before you've assembled your rifle. And once it's done, once you're in position -- rain softly pattering on the night-camo plastic rain cape covering you and your gear, rifle resting on the stand's edge, scope focused to the correct distance -- time ceases to be a thing that happens to you. With the infinite patience of Death herself, you scan the windows of the hive and wait for your moment.
You wake from one warmly exciting interpersonal situation to the next, although this particular thigh insinuated between your own has a markedly more important realness attribute. "Mmm?" you enquire, and nuzzle the closest shoulder. You're pulled in very close and kissed soundly under the earfin. "Mm, Lady. Evening, what?"
"Yes," she breathes. "God. I had the most wretched dream. I let myself get sucked inside. I haven't done that since I was a pupa!"
You make a sympathetic noise and kiss her cheek. "Oh, my poor dove. You should have popped by my dream instead! The real you, anyway, that is to say, a version of you was there for a spot of fun before all the explosions and zombies happened. What a jolly riot." She makes a wincey face and you kiss along her shining neck. "Though there's something to be said for blessed reality," you add, and pull her hips flush to yours.
Wrapping her arms around you, she kisses you long and hard, and soon your hips are moving together in an easy, familiar way. Neither of you seem in any terrible hurry to move things along though--it's wonderful to lie here, happy and well-rested, and just kiss. It feels like far too long since you utterly absorbed yourself in the feel of her lips and tongue and teeth without it escalating into desperate lust; right now your desire for her is at a low, lazy simmer and you're more than happy to linger here. Slowly, softly, Cloris kisses down your neck. Soon you're moaning her name and stroking her horns as she sucks hard, raking her teeth, her tongue flicking. You're almost embarrassed such a simple act has you shuddering and gasping inside of a few seconds, but it's so agonizingly close to what her bite feels like... She moans and sucks harder, and you know that she knows too. Her attentions will likely leave an unholy mark, but right now you can't bring yourself to care, especially when she holds you like you're something valuable and savors you like this... She sucks several more livid marks along your throat, and when she parts to look into your face, she looks as dreamy and content as you feel. "Let's have a shower, darling."
She carries you off into one of the more sumptuous nearby bathingblocks, presses you to the warming tile, and takes you sweetly, slowly, piercing your skin with just the very tips of her fangs, little thorn scratches along your throat, the quivering rim of one of your fins. Everything is a ruddy haze of warmth and steam and softness by the time she finishes herself off against you, and you curl, purring, into her body and let her groom the sopor and slurry from you with soft hands. You drowse as she cleans herself, then dries the both of you, and sling an arm around her waist as she helps you to the wardrobe block. "Something pretty," she muses, flipping through the racks. "You're a gem like this, darling, we just need to fit you to the setting—" "Nothing fancy," you yawn. She cups your chin and draws you into another long kiss, then holds you at arms lengths and smiles at you. "No, of course not, darling, but you've been in too little for too long, don't you think? I'd like to see you properly turned out." You kiss her palm and let her negotiate you into more layers than you'd like and less than she'd prefer, but at least it's all sensible blacks— until she wraps a long and deliciously soft green scarf around your shoulders. "There," she says, holding you out at arm's length. "Aren't you lovely, pet." "You're not so bad yourself," you tell her, running your fingers along the scarf, and she laughs.
Warm and comfortable as you are, you know even before you're quite awake that Erskin is gone. Still, you check thoroughly -- as if Erskin might somehow have ended up on Paw's other side, or be hiding super-stealthily down in the bottom of the sleeping bag -- because you don't want it to be true. It is true, though. The warm bundle in your arms is Reggie, and your moirail is nowhere to be seen. You pull on your boots, put on a nice trellis-stitch hat to cover the mess your mohawk has turned into, and nestle Reggie into the warm space under Paw's chin. Paw opens one eye a crack. "Look out for this lil' guy, aright?" you murmur, and he whuffs agreement. Then you go looking for Erskin. You half expect Cloris to have locked you out, but maybe she knew you'd just bust the damn door down if she did. You don't bother wiping your feet, just go clomping around on her hardwood floors hollering your moirail's name until you hear a response you can follow to him. You find him cuddling Cloris in a room with a fireplace, the decorations just a little too fussy to be cozy; you stop just inside the doorway, feet planted wide and hands curling into fists, and your nostrils flare. If you were a cartoon, your hat would lift on a plume of steam. "One. Day." Your chin crumples. "You couldn't even spend one day with me, without running back to her for a bite."
Cloris pauses in stroking your horns as this new fellow stomps in. You peer at him muzzily; you swear his face is familiar, but with his hair covered up he's difficult to place. Your mouth opens, but then Cloris runs her finger along the edge of your earfin and nothing comes out. Your Lady smiles at him. "Bites," she corrects sweetly. "And surely you don't expect your moirail to sleep out in the snow if he doesn't want to, do you?"
"Tsst." You chop a hand dismissively in her direction. "Not talking to you." You stomp closer to Erskin, trying to catch his eyes -- they look wobbly and unfocused. "Shit, bro, you're drunk as a crow in the corncrib. Is this your life now? Boozin' it up first thing in the evening?"
Your earfins flatten and you press back into your Lady's arms, wary of the anger in his tone. "I," you say, and then "Er," and finally, uncertainly, "....no?"
You glare at Cloris. "The fuck did you do to him?" Cloris wraps her arms around him and rests her chin between his horns. "I thought you weren't talking to me." "How the fuck old are you?" you snap. You pull off your hat so you can rub at your messed-up hair, stalk over to a chair and plunk down, legs stretched out, still grumbling. "Fuckin' old-ass vampires actin' like a smartass lil' pupa, goddamn. Vhines, I ain't disliked anybody this much in a long-ass time. No spade-o," you add, pointing sternly at her with the hand holding the hat.
"Oh! Jethro!" you say, the pieces of your pan finally clicking together, and you struggle up to sit. "Hallo! You're here." You frown at Cloris. "Were you— you were fighting, weren't you, you— you said you wouldn't, my Lady. You said. I need him."
Cloris chuckles into your hair. "Darling, it isn't my fault if your moirail charged in here fit to be tied," she says, then adds: "Jealousy isn't attractive on anyone, Jethro dear."
You ignore her petty jabs, gawking at Erskin in horror. "You forgot me. You... you forgot me." She's erasing his memory, his thoughts, his willpower. Turning him into an empty doll. And he's cooperating with it because she's convinced him there's nothing wrong. There's nothing you can do about it, not on your own. Bel was right: she has to die. Otherwise he'll never be free. She'll use him up and throw away the husk, and somewhere in there she'll get rid of you, just as soon as she doesn't need you to pacify him. Just as soon as the last shreds of fight have gone out of him. You get up and stalk off toward the kitchen. You'll think it over a bit while you grab some chow for you and Paw -- and Reggie, hell you better take reggie too, what do kittyducks eat -- and then you'll just... walk out. With any luck she'll think you're giving up on Erskin, and not stop you. And then you can call Bel and tell him the address.
Cloris catches at your arm as you try to get off the couch, but you pat her reassuringly and then pull free. You stumble a little and catch yourself on the doorframe as you get your bearings. He was so upset— "Jethro," you call, "I say, wait up— are you alright?"
"No," you say unsteadily, "and neither are you, but ain't nothing we can do about it right now. You won't never believe that girl's doin' you a harm. Nothin' weird about forgetting your fuckin' moirail's face overday, right?" You give a slightly hysterical laugh as you pull things out of the thermal hull. "What does Reggie eat? That's your lusus, in case you forgot him too. He still ain't woke up, not that you're allowed to care about that." You're blubbering like a wiggler, and you know if you don't get it under control Cloris is gonna come in and say something sneery about it, but you just keep slamming food packages onto the table.
"I—he eats mostly prey animals, like me, but he'll have grubloaf if there's nothing else on offer— could you— could you just—" you try to catch his elbow but he just keeps moving, tearing the room apart with awful green tears running down his face. Why does he cry so much, it's awful. You grab his elbow more firmly, brace with your good leg, swing him around. Anything to arrest that awful frantic busyness. "Calm down," you tell him, and try to pat his blotchy face. "Shh. I'm here."
"Are you?" you demand, glaring into his eyes. "When did we meet? What were we plannin' on doing afore Milady crooked her shiny lil' finger an' you ditched me? Jegus, Erskin, do you even remember my last name?"
MEANWHILE: Not long after sundown, you see a figure emerge from the tent in the back courtyard; hold your breath, hoping, but it’s not Erskin, it’s Jethro. Well, it’s good to know he’s still alive, at least. Your difficulty in tracking him points out to you how bad the visibility is getting, though. The rain is turning back to snow, getting heavier. And the wind is picking up; the tree’s not swaying enough for you to feel it, but your scope occasionally swoops off target, and you have to work to regain your aim. You straighten, rub feeling back into your hands, take deep breaths until your brain spins back up. You’re going to have to get closer. Get past that fence somehow. After a few minutes’ thought, you troll Pancho: CH: * Sergeant, get on my White Hats account and look up how to hack a pizza drone.
You hesitate, taken aback, and look at the floor as if it might have answers, or, or at least not be glaring at you. "I... I don't— don't— it doesn't—" your hand comes up to your mouth. God. Oh, god. "....Makwaa," you say, guess, then more firmly, confidently, "Mister Makwaa. I didn't call you by your first name for the longest time because I wanted you to think I was respectable, not just, not— not some stupid feral, like, like Bel always— not some monster you dug out from the bushes, I wanted—I'm sorry. I am stupid, I'm all broken up and mad, I'm— I'm not fit for— I'm sorry." You bring your foreheads together and hold him there, shivering. "I didn't... I didn't mean to lose you," you tell him. "I know you, I do."
