Chronica belongs to the amazingly creative Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow.

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Cooler Evening

Year 1735 month 1 day 12, in the city of December

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Women. They had to be the most frustrating and fascinating creatures on the face of this planet. In fact, they might possibly be the most perplexing beings in the entire universe.

Nicholas punched the bag again and again.

He needed to stay in shape anyhow, he reasoned. Nobody was hurt by it if he pounded out his frustrations on the bag. Nobody had to know what he was thinking as he wrestled with his thoughts, feelings and frustrations, and worked them out of his body this way.

He got along reasonably well with most females he encountered. He loved his great-great-great granddaughter. She seemed to reciprocate, which further endeared her to him.

He had loved his wife very deeply. Her slightly different perspective on so many things had helped to expand his thinking. She'd been good for him, and he hoped he had also been good for her. He still felt as if he'd lost the best part of himself on the day she died, twenty years ago. He still existed, but he didn't know if he would ever feel completely alive again.

He respected, loved and trusted his sisters, even on those unusual situations when he disagreed with them. He almost adored his mother, and it still hurt that she was as good as dead. He still hoped and prayed that was reversible, but he feared it might not be.

He was on friendly terms with most of his co-workers, regardless of their gender. The different perspectives of the women could be intriguing, or frustrating, by turns. Sometimes they helped him stay in balance, as his wife had, though to a lesser degree.

And then there was Chronica.

Sometimes Chronica seemed like an overgrown child. Circumstances had compelled her to make her way alone in the universe. She'd never been surrounded by a loving family, as he had. Except for Domina, it seemed she'd mostly been a loner. Small wonder she was somewhat socially awkward, all things considered.

He should make allowances. He knew that, but sometimes when her bluntness approached crassness, he had difficulty concealing how shocked he was that she'd never learned to soften such thoughts or remarks.

She obviously had enough intelligence to make those mental connections. Had it never occurred to her to observe ordinary human social interactions, and learn from them?

When she'd first asked him for what could politely be called a romantic relationship, he'd been shocked. After thinking it over, and discussing it with his father and one sister, he had instead offered to date her platonically. She had agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

Sometimes it felt more like a babysitting job than like a friendship between adults, thanks to her social ineptitude and extreme loneliness. She was such a strange blend of ignorance in ordinary matters and very specific knowledge about tactics, Plants gone bad, science, technology, etc. He sometimes wondered if that had been a barrier to her forming friendships with ordinary humans.

And then there was the problem that whatever woman had influenced her casual wardrobe was a bit beyond shameless. Chronica thought it was funny when all the ordinary human males stared at her slack-jawed. He was considerably less affected, thanks to Plants needing a stronger emotional component to set off those reactions. He still considered her more of a co-worker than a friend. If she weren't so terribly lonely, he'd have sent her away years ago.

Well, he had tried to send her away with harsh words five years ago. Thankfully, it hadn't worked... he'd have regretted it for most of his life, if they'd parted on those terms. She'd accepted his awkward apology, and they'd mostly continued as if the argument had never happened.

He sighed and punched the bag a few more times. He felt sweat run down inside his shirt, making the cloth stick to him and prevent any air circulation. So he took off his shirt and tossed it aside. The gym was sweltering enough without wearing unnecessary clothing in this heat. Thankfully, he was male. Nobody minded if a guy took his shirt off, especially when it was hot and he was exercising.

The weather report expected that the temperatures should drop as evening came on. He was impatient for that to happen, since today had been hotter than most, even for summer.

He heard and felt it, more than he saw it; the gym employees began opening windows. The evening air had finally begun to cool, if only slightly. It wasn't enough to truly bring relief yet, though. He glanced around, stretching his shoulders, preparing for another assault on the bag.

Drat. He hadn't paid enough attention to the group sharing the gym with him. There was at least one female who chanced to be watching as he'd removed his shirt, and she was still staring at him. He deliberately turned his back and focused on the punching bag.

He began aiming jabs, roundhouses, uppercuts, and the occasional kick at the inoffensive bag. Thankfully, it was sturdy enough to take his abuse without being damaged by it.

What motivated Chronica? Was it lust?

No, he knew her better than that. He could see her face, inhale her scent, and sample her emotional echoes, every time she was near. She had curiosity and loneliness, in spades. There had never been desire. Her instincts had no more awakened than Alex's had.

However, she'd suffered a bad experience, which kept the subject on her mind. He knew that because she'd told him, after making a comment based on the assumption that he already knew what she was talking about. She'd been surprised that the only person she'd ever told, his mother, had never told anyone else.

"Mama might have told Papa," Nicholas remembered telling Chronica, when the subject came up last week. "They had very few secrets from each other, if any at all. But he'd never say a word about it to anyone else, just as she wouldn't."

Chronica had expressed a hope that his mother would recover, and then she'd sat silently for a time. When she finally began speaking again, she hung her head and spoke in a monotone. She told him how four teen-aged human boys had tricked her into agreeing to cooperate while they raped her. Those weren't the words she used, but that's what he would call the situation she'd described.

He kicked the bag as savagely as those boys had used Chronica. It rammed into the wall with a louder-than-average thud, and he had to catch it quickly before it swung back and struck him in the groin.

Those motherless... it still angered him that anyone would treat a naïve young girl the way those four had treated her. Even her emotionless retelling made it plain to him that they'd been deliberately and needlessly brutal. And they'd done those things to a Plant, who'd have to suffer from the results of their crime for far longer than any ordinary human would. In some ways, that made it worse.

Chronica wanted something better than what she'd already experienced, if there was anything better to be had. He couldn't blame her for that.

But why in the world was she looking for him to provide that better experience?

He punched the bag a few more times, as hard as he could. He wasn't really angry with Chronica, not about that.

It was her attackers, the ones who messed her up, who he really wanted to hit. Even though they were long dead, he still wanted to reach back into time and hit them so hard that their grandchildren would be born dizzy. No, he wanted to hit them so hard they couldn't have children – let alone grandchildren.

He knew that Chronica would be offended if she ever detected the way he pitied her, so he was very careful to keep that sentiment buried deep within himself. She liked to think of herself as strong and independent. She would perceive his pity as an insult.

She needed someone; that much was plain. He just didn't know if he was cut out to be that someone.

He'd tried, repeatedly, to invite her to church. His faith was a deeply personal thing to him, so he was always awkward in his efforts to discuss it with people who didn't at least respect it. He believed that she might find some of what she needed there, if she'd only give it a try. So far, she'd been unwilling to even consider attending church. Her words when she declined his invitations had made it plain that she considered The Faith nothing more than a set of superstitions, and that she confused it with religion.

He'd been too hurt, at the time, to attempt explaining to her how faith and religion were vastly different things. Faith is what someone believed, deep in their heart. Religion was either how someone practiced their faith, or else how hypocrites pretended to behave as if they believed in something other than themselves. Formalized religion might bear little resemblance to the faith it claimed to support.

The difference between faith and religion could make it difficult to find a church that was mostly led and populated by people of faith, instead of religious hypocrites. He'd found one, though, and he genuinely enjoyed spending time at the services. He also enjoyed social occasions spent with the congregation.

He suspected Chronica might mistakenly think that he only attended church for social reasons. He'd let the subject drop, aside from re-inviting her every third year or so. He didn't feel like enduring any variation on the conversation he imagined would follow when she first discovered he was serious about The Faith, if she'd not been attending church at least a little before that.

His faith wasn't the only thing he was serious about. He was also serious about getting married before being physically intimate with her. He was serious about not marrying outside The Faith. The way things were going, he and Chronica might remain "just good friends" for centuries, or even forever.

He'd been pelting the bag pretty constantly, and he was beginning to grow tired. Good, perhaps that would help him to sleep tonight, instead of lying awake aching for his dead wife... again. He paused to rest his forehead against the bag, and check his breathing, to see if he wanted to continue or not.

The open windows were finally beginning to help. The air was moving, and it was slowly beginning to cool down toward a tolerable temperature. Thank God.

Suddenly, he caught a whiff of an all-too-familiar scent.

Oh no, not here... not tonight. Please God...

He risked a glance in the direction the errant whiff of air was coming from, and felt his shoulders droop slightly. Sure enough, there was Chronica busily pelting away at the third punching bag away from the one he'd rented for the whole evening.

As usual, she wasn't dressed to blend in... And the local human males were staring.

Was that a mild revenge, on her part, toward males because others had hurt her? He hadn't considered that possibility before. Perhaps he should have. But then, he'd not known she had any cause for revenge until last week.

Chronica obviously had zero interest in giving any of them what their eyes hungered for. He'd seen her do this several times before. She'd flaunt just enough of her body to get them interested, and then walk off without a second glance. She never flirted. She didn't even move sensuously. She only dressed provocatively, and heaven help anybody who tried to accept that implied invitation!

He grinned as he recalled how Chronica had dealt with a few youths who had tried to get too "friendly" with her, without first asking permission. She would not have given any permission to them, but if they had asked then they would have received only bruised egos. Since they didn't ask, those young men had thoroughly earned the broken fingers she gave them.

As far as he knew, neither they, nor their associates, had ever tried doing anything that stupid with Chronica again. He hoped they had learned the lesson equally well toward other women, but he knew the type. Some guys seemed almost incapable of thinking beyond their own... anatomy. Those low-lifes gave all males a bad name. The ones who did things like that disgusted him.

Looking was one thing. Given the style of Chronica's attire, that was within reason. However, insults or touching was something else entirely. Neither insults nor uninvited contact was ever acceptable. It puzzled and frustrated him that so many guys, especially the younger ones, failed to grasp something so simple and obvious.

He shrugged mentally, and turned his thoughts away from low-life types and back toward the feminine Plant whom he found so perplexing.

Chronica didn't radiate the same extreme coldness toward him, or toward his father or brothers, that she did toward human males. If his current hypothesis was accurate, that could explain several things.

Chronica needed someone to love her, someone male. She didn't trust human males – with good reason. Given her experiences, he couldn't blame her for her mistrust.

He knew that not all human males were like the ones who'd hurt her, or the ones who tried to initiate foreplay (or worse) without permission. He got the impression she knew that also, but she still didn't trust human males. At all.

For Chronica, a human male was out of the question. Even for a "convenience" relationship, such as she had invited him to participate in with her, she would never want a human. Not even temporarily.

So the question he needed to answer within himself was if she'd chosen the correct masculine Plant.

He would not do a "fling" with her, nor would take her merely as a lover. Before he let her get that close to him, he would marry her.

Was this something that he could do? Was it something that he wanted to do?

He didn't know the answers.

He straightened up and started pelting his assigned punching bag again.