April 13th 2011- Sveta
Sveta fretted on her pole. She smelled, she knew it, she hadn't scrubbed away all her tendril wax and he would be able to tell. And then she'd be so embarrassed she'd make an even bigger idiot out of herself. Or she wouldn't be able to speak loud enough, and trying to be louder would make her stutter and say wrong words. Something was going to go wrong, as always.
Her tendrils nervously fanned out behind her, tips brushing against the roof and floor, searching for whatever danger was getting her so riled up. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on reeling them back in, there was no danger. It was just her stupid mind being stupid again, like it always did.
She wrapped her pole with every tendril, squeezing tight, as tight as she could, inhaling as much air into her tiny lungs as she could and letting the pressure build.
It was going to be fine.
She let the air out and focused on each tinny, whistling breath. Each one bringing her closer to calm-
The outer door lock clicked, sending her tendrils into a frenzy, scrabbling for purchase, writhing madly over every surface and scattering her drawing things. They moved her, wedging her into place above the door. Sveta whined shrilly, tears gathering in preparation for their humiliating first meeting. She looked in the mirrors opposite the door, searching for movement.
The inner door opened and Greg stepped inside. He wasn't wearing the suit. Her tendrils lunged, as she screamed softly, wrapping around his neck and stomach, wrenching his limbs off like all those people.
"Hey, Svets," he said, and she stopped screaming.
Under her tendrils she felt the familiar texture of the suit rather than her gripping his bare flesh. She squeezed accidentally, her tendrils trying to wrench his left leg off, but he was barely moved by the sudden force.
"That's lovely," he gestured slowly, moving her tendrils with the motion instead of being strung up like a marionette. "I didn't know you could paint."
"Sorry," she said hurriedly, glancing at her sea and building mural. "It's not very good, sorry for not telling you."
Her tendrils squeezed tighter, so tight she was sure the suit would start to break, but there were no telltale pops or creaks or rattling noises.
"Sorry, did they give you a new suit?"
"Hmm? No," Greg started to waddle over to get a better look at the mural. "I'm reinforcing it. This shit is tite though, you should start a pintrest. People would shell out for shit like this, even more when they know who made it."
He had a really cool voice.
"Thanks," Sveta said. "I bet you could do better."
"I can't even draw," Greg laughed a deep, rich chuckle. "Oh, you should paint my first album cover! My first few songs are coming out on Twitter soon."
"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly-"
"No, shut up, you're commissioned. How could I get anyone else to do this with me? How does it feel to be a professional artist now?"
She wanted to tell him that she didn't want her brand associated with his shitty nigga rap or whatever it was he was doing, like she might if they were messaging online, but her mouth wouldn't make the right sounds.
"No, thank you," she said instead, even though she really sort of wanted to. "I really wouldn't be comfortable with that."
"Oh," Greg deflated under her grip. "That's fine too. You should think about it though, because you're really good. I can get you in with Canary if you want."
Sveta's tendrils waggled frantically. "You know Bad Canary?!"
"We're doing a single together," he tried to crane his neck to look at her face, but the tendrils around his neck thankfully stopped him short. "It's been really cool, actually. I won't spoil anything, but I bet you'll love it. I'll send you some free merch, too."
More tears sprang to Sveta's eyes, staining the edges of them black.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much for coming to visit."
"Aw," Greg reached up to pat her tendrils awkwardly, straining against their attempt to tear his arm off at the shoulder. "No worries, bro. I was really looking forward to it too, I'm going stir crazy in HQ. There's only so much grindy training a guy can do before he wants to McFucking kill himself."
Sveta's dangling organs wracked as she sobbed, burying her face into the back of his helmeted head, and, for the very first time that she could remember she gave a hug.
"How could they do this to you?!" she babbled, gripping as tight as she could. "All you ever wanted to do was entertain!"
Greg let out a squawk of surprise as her tendrils bound his legs together, defying physics to remain upright.
"Yeah, it's not fun, but it's not so bad," Greg tried to disentangle himself, prompting a defense response from her tendrils until he settled back into wobbling to maintain balance. "Weld and Reynard keep me company, and they let me do the group training with New York, oh hey, d'you know Jetstar?"
"Uhuh, the jet tinker girl."
"She's apparently into me and she's crazy hot."
Sveta screwed up her eyes and gathered her courage.
"We have to get you laid," she whispered.
"Oh, fuck, I wish. I haven't even sent her a message yet."
"Pussy," Sveta whispered again, sniffling. "W-we need to get you some."
She fought down the urge to apologise, to beg forgiveness for her rudeness, her presumption. Maybe he didn't want to get with her, maybe he was really insecure about his inability to talk to real girls and needed emotional support, who was she to know and cast judgement even in jest?
"And we will," said Greg. "I'm actually really interested to see if I can get a sex skill, like, a five percent increased chance of hitting the G-Spot or something."
Oh god. Sveta cringed, turning to bury herself in her tendrils. A conversation that was funny over text was horrifyingly embarrassing in person. What could she even say to that? She couldn't experience these things. Even if Greg had only had one awkward conversation with Jetstar it was a hundred billion times more than she would ever accomplish.
She laughed weakly, her tendrils finally responding to her burning desire to get away. They shot out, gripping her pole and hauling her away to the far side interposing the set of shelves that usually held her organs between Greg and herself, finally getting a proper look at him.
Thicc, she would have said if they were messaging, with a quintessential baby-face. It somehow worked without making him look too weird. Of course, it may not have been exactly what he looked like as he was wearing one of his magic disguises over the tank-like suit.
"Nayet," said Greg.
"Huh?" the word came out as a near silent breath.
"Your real name is Nayet."
Sveta gaped, her shriveled heart beat suddenly deafening in her ears drowning out all thought.
A tendril suddenly whipped out at Greg's neck, but he dodged.
"My name?" she said breathily.
He smiled, nodding.
"Wow," she mouthed.
Nayet. It sounded right, something about it resonated with her deeply like it was connected to her soul. It sounded like beach waves on rock, a soothing rolling crash. She was Nayet.
"Nayet," Sveta said, black tears running down her chalk white face. Greg handed her some tissues, which her tendrils promptly tore to shreds but it was the thought that counted.
Later, they played a game a of Scrabble.