Foxen stared at the crate of meilooruns on the counter in front of him and willed them to become what he’d actually ordered.
Unfortunately, glaring death at fruit didn’t transmogrify it. But glaring death at other things could achieve results.
He picked up his datapad and placed the call, propping up the device against the crate and aiming the camera at his face. The angle created foreshortening; he looked imposing. Good.
The connection took long enough that he supposed the contact was genuinely considering not answering his call. But he knew better; if he didn’t answer, he’d get a visit in person.
The screen lit with barely the tops of a pair of beady eyes and a green antennaed head. Hiding from the frame.
He knows.
“H-heeeey, Foxen…w-w-what’s going with you? What do I owe the plea–” voice crack, “p-pleasant, pleasure, uh of this call?”
Foxen stared. Crossed his arms. Slowly.
“Okay okay, karabast, just– look. Look look look. I know you didn’t want meilooruns.”
Raise brow.
“But! But I couldn’t get the kaskoto, okay? Omwat isn’t exactly a trade hub! The locals won’t rub elbows. I gotta get a team to go down and pick your bloody fruit themselves! You know that’s gonna take longer!”
He stared. Lifted one hand. Pointed.
“Come on! Please, kriff, gummi a break, I’ll get them, see, and you, you can have m-m-eliroons in meantime?”
The Rodian’s voice had achieved a new octave of squeakiness. Displeasure: conveyed.
The Nautolan pointed again, warning, and then tapped his chrono. Heeks visibly gulped. Foxen cut the call without further ado, and resisted the urge to dump the whole crate of traitorous melons on the floor. He wasn’t going to waste them.
- Huffing in irritation, definitely not fraking pouting, he set his chin on his hand and leaned against the counter, contemplating his new acquisition. What the frak was he going to do with this many meilooruns before they spoiled? Make gallons of ice cream and sorbet? Put together an entire meiloorun feast? Meiloorun-glazed roasts, meiloorun simmered steaks, whipped meiloorun cocktail, meiloorun curry, sauteed meiloorun and vegetables, meiloorun pudding, meiloorun jelly…tarts, cakes, candies.
Ugh. He didn’t even know if Flyndt fraking liked them.
“Stupid fraking…” he grumbled soundlessly to himself, and grabbed one to bite in half with a vicious snap of his jaws that was barely satisfying. Too soft for the tearing he wanted. The fruit was perfectly ripe.
At least Heeks still delivered good produce even after five years. Now if only he could get it right.
The Nautolan swallowed the other half whole and sighed, brushing a hand over his head. So much for the surprise for his bird. So much for all his plans. Operation: Make Flyndt Smile and Operation: Prepare Comfort (in case intel is bad and frustration high) status: failure.
Dead in the fraking water.
Ugh, frak.
Secondary operations would have to be engaged. But first: gather intel, status check.
Snatching his datapad back up, he opened his most well loved contact. Just his eyes resting on it settled his agitated nerves. His mouth made a smile at the last exchange of messages: Flyndt commenting about concern for Drakor, who had refused not to follow him onto the transport – which Foxen was absolutely jealous of – and confusion on Jax’s continued linguistic gymnastics, querying if the bars on the asteroid were truly haunted by spirits.
- He told himself once again that it would be fine. They had to practice being apart. Even if he could feel every one of the 2730 million km of distance behind his eyeballs. It would be fine. Jax was reliable. He would guide Flyndt. And Flyndt would escape from 76% of most likely possible troubles. Or smash those troubles in the face with the butt of his halberd, mmn.
Frak, he missed him.
Foxen started typing.
🦈: How’s it going, birdy? Made contact yet? 🦈: I’m wishing I was there with you.
“Blindman’s Office” Port Ol'val
Tick…tock…tick–
Two leather fingers alternated between the counts of the wall chronos beats. He watched the hands tick down for a few more seconds before glancing towards an odd, small group of aliens gathered a couple meters away. Most he did not recognize, however the tall one hunching to keep his horns from scraping the ceiling was familiar. Flyndt watched as the older man conversed, noting the careful way his lips concealed all but the smallest flash of fangs – fangs he had only seen briefly smiled to Minnow or Foxen…mostly Minnow it seems. Around the Nautolan brother, Jax seemed to have an air of sadness and remorse. He…tried not to open himself to the man much, even if usually the hybrid was happy to talk or teach or listen. So easily found himself adopting the negative emotions, stoking the embers of his own.
With that thought, he did not know what to do with himself anymore. Eavesdropping felt wrong. They were still waiting for a meeting with the Blindman, been sitting here for…long enough! The creeping presence of ennui was settling on the Omwati.
Brrree, brrree.
Crimson striped feathers flared to attention as Flyndt glanced to the datapad resting in the seat beside him. A smile graced his lips and he slid the device into his lap, taking a bit of effort to not yoink it swiftly and obviously. He would rather to escape notice and keep this sphere of conversation between himself and–
Foxen🦈.
The omwati’s brow softened at seeing the name upon the notification. Thumbing it open to the chat log, he glanced over the past conversation and rolled his eyes. Apparently the bars were not haunted in Ol'val to Foxen’s knowledge. Flyndt had bet that he could prove whether they were or not sometime. Anywhere the living Force was, was the echos of those past after all. He read past all that and onto the new messages.
Hoo… Foxen wished he was here too. Flyndt paused on that, lightly tracing the sentence once more, his smile widening a bit more.
🦜: Still waiting. Jax found friends, invited to talk, I declined. I think he is doing more of the puns, I see occasional groaning face.
After sending that message, he quickly added.
🦜: I wish you were here as well. 🦜: What are you doing?
🦜o°o°o°o°
Hee-hoo, went his datapad, making his insides flip over and fizz, as if he’d just chugged an entire bottle of champagne, airy and sweet. Even if he hadn’t been glued to the screen watching those dancing dots, he’d have known it was from Flyndt. He kept every other contact or notification on silent, not wanting to be given away at any point. But this one…
🦈: He’s a menace to society but he thinks he’s cute.
Was the reply to the first, before reading down to–
…wish you here as well…
His face felt. Funny. He touched at his cheek and found it stretched, beaming. The Nautolan worked his jaw. Scrunched up his face, grimaced, puffed out his cheeks even. All functional and flexible. It just… tingled. And kept reverting to the splitting smile.
He tabbed out of their messages for more complete investigation, using the hololense. Seeing his own expression thrown back at him was…
Well. Okay, maybe not taking a picture of that to send. All his teeth were in that. He wasn’t out to intimidate a target.
It was Flyndt. Who wished he was there too.
The sound that scraped out of his chest could be called a giggle by someone wishing to be made into many smaller pieces.
He snapped a quick photo then returned to the other application to resume typing.
🦈: Oh, you know, the usual. Resisting murderous impulses over incompetence, plotting nefarious deeds, etc. Need to put a pause on the afternoon world domination, though. It’s a lot of plotting. 🦈: Do you know if you like meilooruns? Sample: [attachment:image788.hfg]
✓✓
🦈 o°o°o°o°
Flyndt pulled himself away from the typing indicators to tip his datapad a little more towards himself as someone walked by. His eyes stared at their back as if he could will them to move on faster. Glancing back to the screen, his feathers bounced lightly and a smile graced his lips.
“Pfft, this true,” the Omwati muttered, glancing over to the society’s menace in question who’s ears twitched in his direction. Whether or not the man actually paid attention, Flyndt did not stay to determine. His eyes were already glued to the new message.
“Haw-haw!”
An undeniable laugh rang out. He could feel a couple heads turn his way but feck them as Foxen would say. Plotting nefarious deeds, world domination? What incompetence? It was funny joke, like things one might assume of the man when his daily life was gym, swim, and cook. Flyndt hummed to himself as he scrolled down and froze–
Meilooruns…
The green and red spiky oval fruit was recognizable. The Omwati had requested it when he could back…back when they were held by that evil man. Good behavior, they said. His mirth was slipping away as memories started to stir. A shake of the head. No, no, he had tried them prior in a market somewhere and, and they were delicious, yes. Flyndt hung onto that, refusing to let those other memories take hold and root their bad seeds.
🦜: Hoo? Just world domination? Whole galaxy out there, yes? Amused. 🦜: I do. Nearly got in trouble with some guards, the merchant did not like my trade. Worth it though, as you say.
Foxen found his leg jiggling while he waited, watching the little marks appear that told him of affirmative message received status. The Nautolan’s fingers also tapped, and he looked at them with narrowed eyes and ordered the digits to stop.
It was just…he missed seeing Flyndt’s reactions. They were everything. He wanted to know if the Omwati had been amused or confused by his joking; 99.99% of galactic population would not assume a joke. He wanted to watch his feathers move and face play, hear the beak clacks. Text without audiovisual: inferior.
Then the dots appeared, and his heart did a fraking backflip while pulse skyrocketed 300%.
Unfortunately, pressing his face to the screen doesn’t actually make the messages come faster.
Grumbling, Foxen forced himself to put the pad down and elected to clean the counters and floor. They were already clean from post-breakfast repair, but frak it, he needed to move or he’d pace himself into a rut.
When the ping, hee-hoo, comes, he is across the room in record time.
He also trips on the goddamn broom he’s moving so fast, and kisses floor tile that smells of non-chemical organic cleaner.
Groaning, the Nautolan pushed himself back to hands and knees with a scowl. And a broken broom handle.
Ugh.
However:
New message from Flyndt.
He kicked the bisected sweeping instrument aside and snatched his pad off the counter without even getting up. Instead he just rolled onto his back and flopped flat, lifting the device up to his face.
Whole Galaxy out there…amused.
Shit who opened champagne in his chest.
And! Meilooruns are liked. Enough to endure troublesome merchants who he probably can’t track down and stab at this point. It’s a small victory with potential promise.
Amused.
Foxen wriggled, the sheer delight needing some exit from his muscles. He’d been amusing. Yes.
The goodness all around makes him type and send very quickly.
🦈: You’re right, a world is too small. I’d burn the galaxy for you. Asshole merchants included. What did you try to trade where? 🦈: Glad you like them so much, then, though. As you can see, got a whole crate here. Told you I got back in contact with one of my suppliers? He sent me this. Not what I ordered, but it’s not a total loss if you like them. Going to make a battle plan. Enough different recipes and maybe you won’t get sick of them by the time we’re through. 🦈: Or I suppose there’s always target practice. Or you could see if Drakor likes them. Give him a treat.
His face scrunches at the idea of feeding the animal, but it is Flyndt’s friend, and Flyndt trusts it. He’s been trying to go out and make himself hold still and look whenever the beast comes by to see Flyndt. Still unable to leave doorstep without threat parameters engaged, but the sweating is…manageable.
A light trill escaped the avian when his datapad sounded off in rapid succession. The back and forth of textual conversation, the waiting and the high feeling when a message somes in, he almost wanted to do this more often. It did not beat being in person when talking. Flyndt stood slightly to shift his feet up onto the bench beneath him before thumbing open his screen to read, blue light illuminating his green cheeks.
He paused and stared.
Reread.
Faint peach hues crept on to his skin.
I’d burn the whole world for you.
A cough.
Flyndt tried to read on, past that but his gaze kept drifting back to those six words. Why? Why could he not look away? Dark black hands scarred and mottled orange grabbing his attention, then slowly gesturing signs he did not recognize but felt –
Aaaaa! Chikk'dkk!!!
Flyndt ducked his head down into his knees for a moment, grumbling. Why did Foxen have to word it like that? Was this one of his jokes? Surely, yes. Taking a deep breath, he managed to delve farther.
🦜: A knife. I do not think they understood. 🦜: Hooo, that is a lot of Meilooruns. Drakor might like them? I do not know. Target practice? Is appeal in shooting fruit?
He paused and debated what else could he say? Feathers raising for a moment.
🦜: What did you wish to order?
The double check mark of message received mocked him. His leg jiggled. His heart did backflips.
He decided he was going to be productive, at least, while awaiting those precious dots.
Pushing himself up off the floor, Foxen briskly disposed of the decapitated broom and washed up, then pulled his datapad back up.
To look up a recipe. And not just check his messages. And stare and smile.
Right.
Tabbing over to his reading selections, he closed out of the morning’s chapter on soil enrichment in gardening beds for non-alpine flora and instead pulled up his list of recipes he’d noted as of possible special interest to Flyndt.
Of course, all he had to do was pause and think about it to recall the list in its entirety, but the activity of the looking gave his eyes something to do other than watch their message interface and vibrate.
Many of these recipes centered on high seed, nut, root, and fruit content; hearty forageables in a variety of seasons in either warm tropical temperate or cold temperate type climates of grassland steppe environment. Also: insects. But that wasn’t one he had any information on yet, as nothing he’d made Flyndt so far had contained them, and Flyndt had yet to give any indication of entomophagy. He didn’t want to insult his bird by assuming too much bird.
Melons were seedy, but those seeds didn’t tend to be optimal nutritional or flavor content. Using the fruit as a base or the rinds for display might be better…
Or maybe that was too native an attempt. He had so many things he could make Flyndt that could be meiloorun-based, like the ice cream.
Wait.
Did Flyndt like ice cream? Sorbet? Custard? Mousse?
Foxen’s palm slapped to his temple.
What a tactical fraking disaster, he was lacking critical intel on an entire category of frozen confectionary! Flyndt could hate the cold sensation just as much as he hated the texture of cheese, especially melted.
-
(Foxen had made the tactical decision not to confer this Intel to Minnie. She’d act like she was shot, the overdramatic tadpole.)
Scoffing at himself, the Nautolan tabbed back to their messages, watching the dots, and then grabbed knife and melon for the cutting block. There was no going wrong with a little fresh fruit, unless the tastebuds were incorrect. He could make inquires and Flyndt could come back to the house to meiloorun salad.
No sooner than had he finished cubing one before his pad hee-hoo’d again. With absolute patience he set the knife aside and washed his hands before snatching the device.
There were replies. And more dots. More coming.
It’s a holiday.
His brows climb at the explanation, and his mouth curves into a sharp grin at the question. It’s always an adventure to discover what Flyndt finds curious and what he doesn’t. His questions are…
Tantalizing, intriguing, illuminating, empowering…
They are. Trust. Trust at their purest. He’s honored every time he’s asked anything, shit, as if his opinion or answers can be relied on.
The want to be reliable to Flyndt is. High.
He begins typing as another question appears.
🦈: They thought you were threatening them? Idiot. I’d have loved to have this knife. Give a kidney for it. Or take one. Was it from your tribe? Did you make it? A Flyndt original? 🦈: Is there appeal in shooting anything? I mean, yes, and some objects are far more satisfying than others, but at least for me it’s not really about the fruit. I don’t have any grudges against meilooruns. Maybe if it was desert plums. Even be a challenge. Small targets, numerous. Do YOU want to shoot fruit?
The second question required more consideration. He’d intended for the kaskotos to be a surprise, but evasion wasn’t desired.
🦈: I ordered something for you. A surprise I’m hoping works out. Do you want to know or wait?
🦜: Knife was made by a sister village’s master smith, I do not know name to give but very skilled. If was not a what you call, dud? Then would not have traded. Should not for food but when have to eat, yes.
It was not very informal about their smithing culture but shared enough. Besides Flyndt’s eyes was still gravitating towards ‘give kidney…take kidney? Knife?’ it was a bit extreme but also…endearing in a way. He decided to tack in a bit more, a little bit of pride and eagerness welling in his chest – the kind Gaile would have told him was a bit of show off energy.
🦜: I can make blade too, not as refined but it will kill.
Bold most important. How else would Bapti know he was referencing that sword expert who helps judges weapon smithing on the Forged in Plasma show?
🦜: Could make one maybe, if know of forge? 🦜: Satisfying to shoot Fruit? I would like to see, am not best marksman, but yes. Shoot some when back?
That left one final message.
Flyndt crossed his legs on the bench and bit lightly on a talon. A surprise. He was never good at waiting for surprises. Gaile would…for the first time in who knows how long, he pulled his eyes from the datapad and down the hall to, he did not know where, wherever this Blindman was. What was taking so long? He wanted the intel nowand then he could go home and shoot meilooruns.
Home.
Several months here on this planet and it was home now…
He felt like maybe trying to be patient, let Bapti have this surprise and wait. Will it eat him alive…yes. But he will live.
🦜: No, it is cool. I can wait.
A sound like a cheese grater in the garbage disposal, or the death throes of a hundred different dying animals he wasn’t thinking about right now, erupted out of the Nautolan’s mouth. It devolved into a cough a few seconds later, but he couldn’t help it; the godforsaken excuse for laughter just bubbled out of him at imagining Flyndt doing the Forged impression.
He was just glad the Omwati wasn’t here to endure it with some politely strained smile. But only for a second. Because frak did Bapti want him here.
The offer of the clever inventor making a blade – for him? One he could have? – drew more noise, this one half-whimper, half-groan. And then possible plans for later, and…
It is cool. I can wait.
Goddddddaaaaaaammmmmiiit, Minnow, he thinks, because Flyndt really has picked up on cool and goddamn him he’s giggling over it. Giddy with it. Preening, is likely the best word.
He wants type: yeah? You’ll wait for me, pretty bird? I promise I’ll do good by you.
But that is so far beyond the pale he nearly throws his pad and smashes his head on the counter. He does get up to stick his head in the freezer, because clearly he needs the cold shock to slap him. It doesn’t even last a minute – he’s not some fraking heathen leaving the cyro door open longer than absolutely necessary – but it’s enough to make him go sit down at the bar top and take a breath.
Foxen even sets the pad down, folding his hands while he stares at the screen. He got dangerously close there to just floating right off a cliff on the pure happy high of bantering and planning with the Omwati. Missing him and longing for him was a dangerous cocktail.
He breathed in, and out again. Only once he’d reread and formulated more appropriate responses did he type back.
🦈: Surprise it is then. Thank you for the trust. I’ll try to make it worth the wait.
He checked and double checked, considering. Was that still too much? Too raw?
Was conveying gratitude going to make Flyndt feel demeaned in some fashion?
Ugh.
Even his sighs didn’t last long though as the smile crawled back up his face, more softly, just looking at their messages. He kept going.
🦈: I know several forges, yeah. The compound has a couple. Be happy to show you them. Can even requisition some time at one alone. Unless you wouldn’t mind me watching. I’d love to watch you work. 🦈: And I’d love to have a knife you made. I’d be honored. What do I have to do to earn it? You said you shouldn’t trade such a thing for food normally, so what would be appropriate? Or is it just not for trading among your people? More gifts? Earned by combat? That’s how Mandos do often.
.
Too much time passed. Was he mistaken? Had Foxen actually wanted to tell him now despite saying it was a surprise or giving offer to wait? The talon chewing continued until the brrree, brrree trilled again.
Thanking him for trust?
Sunset eyes blinked, actually blinked instead of the transparent swipe of nictitating membrane to moisten staring at screen orbs. Foxen was expressing gratitude for his patience. Flyndt was surprised, not unpleasantly so. Something about that was…nice. he could feel a warmth cross his face and although a smile did not likewise he liked that, that this surprise was like a permitted honor and, and –
Puhta, chikk'dikk…
He exhaled and leaned back against the wall, his thumb scrolling through the following messages. Right, forges and blades. The thought of the Nautolan hybrid watching him work fluffed some feathers, nervously? He was fairly confident in his skill even if he would not consider himself a master of it. A low hum escaped him, rolling the thought over and each turn it became more of a challenge. Why could he not witness the process? Flyndt nearly preened at the idea of showing off, frak if that is prideful of him, he did not care.
🦜: I would like to see the forges. You can watch.
He paused and after a split second opened up the little pictures for text.
🦜: 😏. 🦜: Call knife a gift. Return for open home. .
Flyndt could not think of the Basic word for hospitality. Open home was closest direct translate from Omwati. He was content with that answer, something he could give for the room and food, the credits and tools offered. The too much things that are hard to take some times…He paused, and sighed. Foxen was not just asking what he would do for giving knife, but yet another culture question. Crimson feathers perked at the mention of combat to earn. He was intrigued, then very much was not and brushed it aside.
🦜: Trading happens between villages, yes. Craft items for craft. Food is a gift from the land, it is an honor to give to those invited in, a symbol of like prosperity. But blades for tools, clothes, machine or furniture. Those yes.
You can watch. 😏
Foxen choked on his water. Had to turn for the deep kitchen sink and ended up bent over it, heaving for air as the liquid burned in his lungs instead of filtering through his gills. He spent longer than he’d like coughing, face and body burning hot and eye bleary when it was finally over, and only some of that was from the excess of carbon dioxide and general lack of oxygen acidizing his blood.
You can watch.
There was just no way the Omwati meant it…like that. He was very certain what the added pictograph normally implied, thanks to incessant amounts of Minnie sending him screenshots, posts, and memes over the years he wanted to bleach from his brain. But surely Flyndt didn’t mean it like that. For a multitude of reasons.
It was just…he was trying to use them. That was all. Maybe it was supposed to be happy, or challenging? Or.
Something.
He made the executive decision to delete that from his memory before it could haunt him in the night and instead focused on the other contents of the new messages. He’d made Flyndt wait 00.06.54 whole minutes while he aspirated, there.
🦈: Okay.
That was unsatisfactory. And lame. But he needed to bide some time while he considered the knife as payment for housing him. Goddammit, no. No, Flyndt, you don’t owe me, anything, you–
You can watch.
Foxen put his face in his hands and screamed, a wet, gross rasp of air.
Look. Look, Kymis, this is why. This is why. Power imbalance, coercion, debt, owing. What if he knew I wanted him more than I want a knife? Would he let me watch then, in return for a roof over his head and fraking food to eat? Would he go to you, or assume you were on my side?
The knife from the block is in his hand, and he wants to put it in his hand.
But Flyndt wasn’t helpless, he was a warrior, a Ghost, he’d kill a man with paper. If he needed to get away from Foxen, he could. He even had options now, with Karran. Drakor. Someone outside their family. If Flyndt didn’t want to be here, he would leave. If Flyndt didn’t want him nearby, he could put Foxen down. He’d done it before.
Right.
Right.
Okay.
He sets the knife down, rips a button scrabbling his shirt open and digs his nails in around the scar on his chest instead, like the only thing he can hold on to. It’s assurance. His heart is tachycardic underneath.
He killed me once, he could do it again.
Right. Okay. Okay.
Okay.
Slowly, the body slides down and sits against the island. He puts his head between his legs and breathes. Only when his heart rate is returned to baseline again does he pull his claws out of his chest and pick his pad back up.
Surprisingly, he’s not shaking. Maybe that’s progress.
🦈: Sorry, had to set the pad down. How’s the meeting going? Try to find any imaginary ghosts yet? 🦈: Be happy to watch you forge. I’ll set it up. Maybe on your next off days? 🦈: Pleased to know your people value a meal for what it is. It’s an honor to make it for you. Don’t suppose you have any idea what you’d like for dinner? I have a lot of options to go with these melons.
He said ‘okay’. Flyndt was beaming, completely unaware of the scene playing out on the other side of the screen. Foxen was interested and wanted to see how a blade is forged – by his hand! The Omwati lad was preening now, fingers straightening the few loose crimson crest feathers atop his head and adjusting his collar. Already his mind was wandering on what he would craft, curious what metals he could find here and d bating the if his techniques would work just as well or if he had to get creative. He would have to scale up the size of course, for the hybrid, but surely that would be easy.
It was not until his datapad trilled again that he realized how much time has passed with his mental wandering. The meeting? His plumage ticked and fell low as he glanced up at Jax and some new person he was speaking with, seemingly not sharing of the bad pun jokes.
🦜: Still waiting, am not amused how long take to speak with this Blindman. 🦜: Also, ghosts are not imaginary. People just make tales when can not explain senses or wish to be spooked.
Flyndt paused after sending that message, taking several seconds to think upon it. Technically, that was what imaginary meant. He sighed.
🦜: Okay, then those are imaginary. 🦜: Yes. Let us plan then.
The next text of Foxen’s suddenly made him aware of the knot in his stomach. Maybe it was because of the reminder of the meeting he was still waiting for or what not, but he really did not feel hungry atm. But he has to eat later, right? Flyndt huffed and leaned his head against the wall for a moment, considering options, mind wavering to something simple and comforting.
🦜: Could we have kew'maxi? Meatballs? Raw with seeds?
“Flyndt?” .
He looked up after hitting send to see Jax standing before him. “Is time? They see now?”
“Yes. I will go introduce us and then if able to have audience, you may come in and speak.”
Flyndt frowned at that, nearly complaining that they had already waited this long he had to wait more? But he bit his tongue and nodded. “O.K. Fine, will wait then.”
He glanced at the device held at his waist and quickly sent a message that the meeting was happening, leaving out the fact he was still fraking waiting. That just irked him too much. So after muting the notifications –just for a little bit– he tucked the pad away and followed Jax. Minutes later stuck standing in that hallway, a short girl collided into him with tears in her eyes and paws flashing an apology. A short exchange and a pang in his chest, the Omwati made a split second decision, glancing towards the office door and the shistavanen.
He pulled the tablet out once more:
🦜: Foxen, someone needs help. I am going to aid them. Will be back, promise.
And closed it to rush after the girl.
🦈: Sorry it’s taking so long. Can’t say I’m surprised, given they call themselves the Blindman and only assholes use monikers like that. Some arrogant underworld prick full on their own power and mystery. Probably making you wait longer than necessary. 🦈: But hey, hang in there. Jaxxie will get you in. Meantime we can keep talking, if you want?
Before he could type like about how that would make them imaginary, the little dancing dots continued suddenly and affirmed just that a few seconds later. Foxen snorted, grinning a little bit at the screen and wracking his memory banks for something ghost-related to offer up. Dumb horror holos weren’t exactly what they were talking about here. This was more than that, cultural, important to Flyndt. The Omwati’s warrior people did call themselves Ghosts, and Flyndt was a Ghost. He called himself a specter. And then there was the whole– Force shit. Flyndt was spiritual, in a way he hadn’t satisfactorily learned about yet. And he had his senses. Maybe he knew something Foxen didn’t, no matter how much like bullshit it seemed.
There was that one bar on Ol'Val…it wasn’t relevant, really, but maybe Flyndt would find it intriguing, if only to stare at the bisected corpses and blinking lights. Equal possibility he’d be sickened, but eh, worth proposing.
Hee-hoo, hooted his pad, and Foxen returned his attention to it. A flash of something like anticipation and satisfaction, the purpose of mission and happiness, rushed through his chest and punched into the base of his spine at the request. It was problematically intoxicating, Flyndt asking for anything, every time.
Frak, he’d give it, every time.
🦈: We can have anything you want. Can definitely do kew'maxi.
The melon seeds would probably be too soft. But he’d gotten a several batches of seeds for this exact purpose, along with treats. He mentally recalled the page he’d left off on in the gardening guides he was reading, which discussed heavily seed producing plants. He needed to research more on Omwat specific flora. Start experimenting with their plants.
🦈: Kew'maxi and fresh melon then. I’ll cut some up for us just to try. Can show you how to make a flower out of one later if you want. Great for decorating/presentation, very easy with a firmer fruit flesh. I think you’d like the extra texture too. Frilly. 🦈: Also: if ghosts are imaginary, then what are real ghosts, to you? 🦈: There’s this bar there that claims to be haunted. Got a whole thing going, corpses and all on display, trying to be gnarly. It’s fraking gauche if you ask me but we can go ghost hunting there if you want to bet on finding any.
The Nautolan was in the midst of planning more to say when an answer came. Disappointment was a quick jab to the stomach when he saw it wasn’t really a reply so much as Flyndt saying it was meeting time, but he kicked the useless emotion away. Good. About damn time the Blindfrak saw Flyndt. Jax had done good.
Maybe even good enough to deserve his favorite jerky. Well. If it was still a favorite, anymore. After five years, who the hell knew.
🦈: I’ll be right here, and dinner will be ready when you get back. Let me know how it goes. 🦈: If they’re stupid, we’ll burn their secret hideout down, okay?
With that Foxen set his datapad down, sighed, and resigned himself to colorless, toneless, stupid time without Flyndt in it and not hearing back for a bit. If they got any kind of break, and frak knew Flyndt deserved one, then there’d be some actual information to discuss for awhile.
So he set himself to his tasks: * Dinner preparation (20 minutes; only prep; unknown time for meeting ending and return trip from Ol'Val would mean flexibility in supper time) * Tidy (4 minutes) * Research (allotted: 30 minute intervals; check in with Flyndt/Jax before resumption) * Flex space (in case of intense positive/negative outcomes in meeting requiring higher degree of tactical flexibility)
And yet no more than 7.253 minutes had passed of dinner preparation, including the pressing of yesterday’s remaining haunch and flank cuts through the grinder – he’d wasted a good 1.4 minutes debating going out to catch something truly fresh, even crab, but the detour was not convenient to keeping the schedule open for flexibility – and mixing of seed/spice selection when his pad pinged again.
But this was not the message tone. This was the alert for their chips: vitals outside normal range.
He was across the kitchen and snatching the pad with seeded hands in 0.003 seconds.
But it was just one alert: elevated heartbeat spike, already returned to normal range, if higher baseline than before. Likely cause: excitement or upset, adrenaline surge, fright. Was it the meeting? Was it already over? Not possibly. Unless they’d refused to see him after all. Or there wasn’t much to tell. Or there was news, but it was…definitive. Was the news bad? Good?
Dammit why wasn’t he there he wanted to know!
But then: hee-hoo.
Vibrating, Foxen tabbed back over to their messages, expecting something.
But not this.
>🦜: Foxen, someone needs help. I am going to aid them. Will be back, promise.
What.
What.
The brain. Struggles to process.
Clarification necessary.
🦈: What? Where? Who? Flyndt, wait. 🦈: I thought your meeting had started? Aren’t you in the base?
What fraker in the goddamn Blindman’s coterie needed help from Flyndt? Was their copier goddamn jammed? Joke was on them, Flyndt would turn it into a heavy repeating paper gun of discus death before he got to fixing it. Why wasn’t he with Jax?
Why would he have left a meeting about Gaile? Finding his brother was all that mattered to him, the only reason he was here in Dajorra at all. Surely he wouldn’t have ditched the meeting for some shmuck.
But, no. This was Flyndt. Flyndt was good. Ruthless, cunning, deadly, dreamy, yes, but also good.
Flyndt would help people.
- …oh for shit’s sake, Flyndt would help people.
And what was Ol'Val packed to the gills with? Scammers. Scum. Villany. Etc. And Flyndt, while wary and clever, wasn’t…
Well, he wasn’t gullible or trusting, but he wasn’t not. And the criminal types on Ol'Val weren’t stupid. A dirty urchin child begging for a coin while the rest of the pack robbed you blind was a cliche of the underworld because it worked. Pretending to be infirm or in distress would get Flyndt to abandon even something as important to his heart as Gaile. It was entirely possible Flyndt was currently missing his pouches and possessions, possibly even clothes like the scarf.
If they stole the scarf.
Goddammit he would punch a six year old, try him, kid.
Groaning to himself, the Nautolan rubbed at his face and tried again.
🦈: Flyndt? How’s it going? What’s going on did you help them? 🦈: Look, I know you’re going to dislike this, but don’t trust children/adolescents/the vulnerable over there. High likelihood of playing you. Check your pockets.
A few more minutes pass. His leg will not be still. The sour taste of bile is starting to rise and he can’t swallow enough to make it go back down.
🦈: Flyndt? 🦈: Flyndt what’s happening 🦈: HEY. PLEASE. 🦈: What’s going on? You don’t have to stop just give me one word you’re okay?
Growling, Foxen stopped and set task: breathe. Set the pad down, washed his hands, put covers over the dinner prep. Cleaned the pad off of seeds/oil/breadcrumbs that had smeared on it from his hands. Drank one 8oz glass of water. Breathed.
Then, task: resume.
Still no messages, not even dancing dots. He stared and stared, willing them, wishing, swallowing conclusively. Blackness skirted the edges of his field of vision again, and he set it to ignore.
Be reasonable. Be reasonable.
He tabbed over to their tracker.
Flyndt’s dot had moved.
No longer was it at the Phantom Complex on Ol'Val. It was halfway across the asteroid, based on coordinate change.
Foxen–
The body is moving.
Stands. The pad trembles as the call goes through.
Brrr…brrr…brrr…brrr…
Try again.
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
Try again.
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
Try again.
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
TRY AGAIN.
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
The hand swiped to another contact.
It connects in one ring.
“Foxen?” Furry/blue-eyed face pulls back into view, obviously in some kind of hallway/outside office setting. “Foxen, I was just about to call you, have you heard from Flyndt? I cannot seem to find him in the refreshers…the Blindman will not wait forever…”
Shut up, Foxen snaps, the hands nearly cracking the pad in haste to set it down and prop it up against the melon crate. Perfectly cubed 3cm³ meiloruuns sit on the cutting board beside it. It falls down. He picks it up again and wants to scream. He’s not with you?
“No, Foxen, he is not with me.”
What happened in the meeting?
“It had not started yet– or rather, I had not brought Flyndt in, I was coming to get him…”
He said he went to help someone. Is there anyone around?
Jax’s ears flick in surprise/discovery. He turned his head and visually searched the immediate area.
- “I…no? I do not see anyone, and I did not hear any calls for assistance either. And I would have heard distress like that. I did hear Flyndt say something, but I thought he was talking to you…”
No. Said he was going to help someone. That was 21.8 minutes ago. He isn’t in the complex. Chip location 7 km north/northwest of your location, coordinates 11038°,34741°,1130876°. Jax. Go. Find him.
“Foxen, do not worry, I am sure he just wandered off to help–”
Jax, fraking go! PLEASE! Something that his face is doing must convey the proper urgency along with his words, because his brother’s cautioning expression hardens into that of a hunter. But the tone. The tone is an old one. It is gentle.
“I will follow his scent. Alright? I will call you back when I have him.”
The screen cuts to black.
The fist slams onto the counter. It shakes.
- Set task: breathe.
Breathe.
BREATHE.
The seconds are too long. The hands tab over to the tracker. The face cannot sieve through the screen. When did the body become level with the floor.
Jax please frak.
Set task: breathe.
The dot keeps moving.
Moving.
Where.
Why.
What is happening.
Help.
What what what.
🦈: glyndt where are you going 🦈: I have Jax tracking you 🦈: We’re he’s coming to help
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
🦈: PICK UP
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
His next attempt is blocked by an incoming call. He answers immediately and nearly throws the thing when it’s Jax, grim now.
His brother does not waste his time.
“I lost him at the Deck 3 port.”
There are more words. Words about the scents of other individuals, one Jax thinks was Shistavanen, maybe, which stayed with Flyndt’s the longest before getting lost in the traffic of bodies and stink of ships and spaceflight. There are assurances. There are suggestions of calling Flyndt.
He terminates the connection, checks Flyndt’s location again – it has in fact departed Ol'Val – and texts his sister.
🦈: EMERGENCY 🦈: Need you now 🦈: Flyndt taken
He doesn’t even know what planet she’s on, what sector she’s in, off with the Zabrak right now or here at Selen.
But there is something shaped like bastardized holiness, because she answers him almost immediately.
“WHAT?” Minnie is screeching as soon as the connection is live, her buttercup features furious. She’s in– somewhere. Can’t care don’t care help. “What do you mean taken what happened?! I thought he was with Jaxxie today!”
Unknown, frak frak frak so much unknown, FRAK, Disappeared. Said someone needed help then stopped responding. Now leaving the system. Time to exit asteroid field approximately 11 minutes at current acceleration. Have to stop them before they jump.
“Whoa whoa whoa, wait, what? He said he’s helping someone? So he didn’t disappear, he left–”
NO. Yes. Said helping and be back, then left. Left Ol'Val. Leaving system. That’s danger.
“Foxxie, anywhere is dangerous…”
YOU AREN’T LISTENING TO ME.
A sound comes out of the body along with the violent breaking of that gesture, a crack from its throat. The sound is a sob.
Minnow’s face contorts in low shadow. She seems to be alone, and she looks struck.
“Tolly…Okie, okie,” she sniffs, and wipes at her cheeks as though she is applying blackening agent, as though they are on deploy on route to assume sniper positions. A glance over her shoulder, her ship, she’s in her ship cockpit, and the partition closes. “Okie, tell me.”*
On your way. Hurry.
“Okie I’m coming. Tolly. It’s okay.”
The body that belongs to that name disconnects yet again and leaves dinner forgotten.
Set task: dress.
Set task: armor/gear.
Set task: weapons.
Set task: explanation.
🦈: It’s promise. Our rules. 🦈: 1) missed you/no going alone. Together. Discuss/agree on missions and both go. Partners. 🦈: 2) if we HAVE to do alone, if one of us leaves, then it’s agreed/discussed first. No disappearing. That is danger. 🦈: He was waiting for meeting. Then said someone needed help
🦈: promised he’d be back. Told me. But no details 🦈: No responses for 56.03 minutes now. Not responding to calls either. Vitals nominal but elevated. 🦈: Jax tracked him to port he departed from. Now leaving system. Nothing else out there no where else to go. 🦈: I thought it was a scam but what if it’s worse. Captured/kidnapped. What if
He stops typing.
🐠: copy 🐠: Omw read l8r ETA 20 min
It is not fast enough. They both know it. Whatever vessel Flyndt is on, it will achieve sufficient distance to jump from the shadow port before Minnie will from Selen’s gravity well.
He’s lost him.
He’s lost him.
Vision: failing.
Heart rate: elevated.
Respirations: elevated.
The body paces. The hands shake. The hands.
- Set task: something
Do
Something
do something
Other messages. Jax saying he is on his way. Ironically, if he’s coming here, he and Minnie will cross paths. Her chasing a ship she can’t reach, him…
He body the paces.
🦈: Struggling. 🦈: Need to plan, tactics. Just so littl e 🦈: information 🦈: Who has yo?u were arey they goinf. 🦈: Pirates? Smugglers=? Trafficking humanoid flesh/sex/drug/3++ etc.m ? Slved? 🦈: If you got collared again
Set task: …
…
…
…
*🦈: if it was ghat man *🦈: Id it was thag man I willlm kill him I will killthem all uflyndt I rpipmse you I prom promise
*🦈: Is shdl
*🦈: Slf
*🦈: i snodild should’ve the swxodjn we got out the second I *🦈: Soon as you were on theshipidhouldve gone back k Im sorry
*🦈: Ims soory I’m so soryry fkyndt hold on
*🦈: FRAK
…
…
…
Minnie doesn’t reach them.
Jax comes.
Jax says things.
Minnie comes.
There is another thing.
They go.
The knuckles are bloody. They shake.
🦈: I punched my brother. 🦈: You ever punch Gaile? 🦈: I think he’d dead tom e right now 🦈: I think 🦈: Chip syas your Live so you’re alive right
…
…
…
🦈: There'sa thing here. Feathers. Your s are prettier you re beautiful i
…
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
…
…
…
🦈: I’m coming.
🦈: We’re coming. I’m coming for you ifrakkigng swear it
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
…
…
…
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]
…
…
…
…
🦈: please be okay 🦈: Please I don’t know how to do this without you anymore
🦈: i need you 🦈: I need gou so much more thannyou need me inknow thays a provlem I know itn 🦈: But I do 🦈: I 🦈: [Message deleted]
…
…
…
🦈…brrr…brrr…brrr…brr…🦜
[Declined.]