"It's been a week, Gregg, and she won't even talk to me," I sigh, rubbing my large ruby eyes miserably. "I just don't know what to do about her, I don't want her to be mad at me… other than you, she's my only friend." We're talking about Willow, who has been avoiding dropping in on my since the incident the night I confessed my intentions to mate with Gregg to her.
Moby, sitting between my feet, is playing a game that involves flicking pieces of plastic across the floor. I smile slightly, wistfully, as I watch him. He takes my mind of the heavy book lying in my lap in anticipation of the big event a mere two weeks away.
Gregg reaches up cautiously with one hand and gently strokes my antennae. "Darling, you're knocking yourself out studying for that test, and I know you know everything. Last night, I came by your incubator on my rounds, and found you asleep next to it with your face in your books." He pauses, strictly wagging a finger at me. "You have got to take some time our for yourself."
Putting his gloved hands on his hips, he wiggles his torso a bit and looks down on me. "Which is why I'm taking you to the grand royal celebration this week's end."
My jaw drops down into the folds of my book. "Wha- what? No! You can't- you're not- serious?! I couldn't possibly… I… Oh Gregg!" I whine, uncertain if I'm going to melt from shock or stand tall in resistance.
The grand royal celebration, you see, is a yearly celebration of the day the twin tallests, as they are commonly refereed to behind their backs, became the leaders of our great and powerful Irken Empire. Needless to say, invitations to it are highly desired, but nearly impossible to get one's claws on.
"How on Irk did you get an invitation?"
"My superior is a friend of mine, he says I have real talent and wants to put me to work under him once I pass my test. He invited me, said it would be a good time to show off my," Gregg pauses and winks, "Little missus."
"Oh, you! I'm not your 'little woman' yet!" I giggle, pushing him playfully. If there's one thing I've made relatively clear through our courtship; it's that I have no desire to do "ding-ding without the ring," as Carlit would have not so delicately put it.
"As soon as I pass my test!" he says brightly.
"Then shouldn't you be practicing your maneuvers for it?" I ask, tapping my foot lightly on the ground. Gregg, a bit childish for a grown Irken, is hard to reprimand. Not because I can't, you see, but because he acts like a sheepish smeet in training when in trouble, and everyone knows how hard it is to punish a cute, grinning smeet.
"Baby, you and I can afford one night out! Come on, how often is it that a common Irken gets to be in the same ballroom as the almighty tallests? Please, please say you'll go," he pleads, grasping my hand as his eyes lock with mine.
"Only because you begged me," I sigh, shutting the book.
"Thank you! You won't regret this!" he says cheerily, his grin so large that it threatens to push his eyes right off his face. If I'd known that life was a manuscript on irony, I might have been a bit more apprehensive about attending the celebration.
The ball is fantastic. I'm not even sure how to describe it, but I'll do my best. Scarlet and lavender streamers drip down from the ceilings, cascading like waterfalls over white tables loaded with food items, most of which are so expensive and lavish that I couldn't even afford the cookbooks they'd be listed in.
Every Irken present seems too have placed every expensive piece of jewelry or antennae adoration in their possession on their bodies to attend. Having nothing except silver glitter to put on the splits of my antennae, I feel underdressed in the jewelry department alone. That doesn't even begin to take into account the silk or satin dresses and uniforms being flaunted all about me. Occasionally the fluffed train or sleeve of a rich female's dress will brush against my bare skin, sending shivers up my fine. The texture of the textiles are so fine that I'm afraid simply letting them brush by my rough skin will fray and rip them.
Gregg takes my hands in his and gives me a quick little spin around on the fringes off the dance floor, as more "trained" Irkens in the field of dancing are occupying the center. Way up in the front, a distance so far away that I can't tell the true heights of the Irkens standing on the stairs, the tallests are resting on ornate, carved thrones. I don't know if it's just me, but they look bored. A think I catch one flicking something at the other, but I'm too far away to tell what.
An announcer is presenting the elite guests as they arrive. As Gregg whirls me around, I suddenly break free of his grip. My antennae nearly stand up straight as the announcer politely informs the room that a Ms. "Willow One, of Smeet Engineering" has arrived.
She looks the same as the last time I saw her, except that she's decked out in a chest and leg-baring silver dress with thick, high heels that look large enough to kill a rat with. I, personally, am still in flat boots with a plain red uniform-like dress that I purchased via an Irkenet ordering system from Planet Callnowia. It looks nice on me, but it's obvious that I don't have half Willow's wealth. Gregg is still in a generic uniform, but a well-pressed ceremonial one.
I notice his body stiffen and his antennae twitch attentively when he sees what I'm looking at. Gregg is of the opinion that I should forget about Willow, that she's no good for me and that in the end she'll only end up hurting me. I know he's probably right, but she's the only friend I've got outside of the tallest fan-girls from the library and Moby. I'd be deathly lonely with her intensive bragging and swelled ego.
She disappears into the crowd, only to pop back out of it while Gregg is meekly attempting to teach me how to complete the basic box step of a waltz. "Isn't it the guys who are supposed to step on the girl's feet?" she asks, studying us.
Gregg glares at her, and I look away. She sighs loudly, her shoulder slumping visibly under the revealing straps of her dress. "Look, O, I'm sorry about what… what I said. I haven't been around because I wasn't sure you… you'd forgive me. I should have thought before flying off the handle."
I look up slightly. "It's one of your worst traits," I say softly, not wanting to betray any emotion in either way.
"I know," she replies quietly but sternly. "But you know, forgiving me has always been one of your best traits."
"She doesn't want you around!" Gregg snaps, suddenly drawing himself to his full height and pushing himself between Willow and me. "Why don't you get the picture?"
Willow's eyes narrow. In the background, some percussion instrument shakes like the rattling of a venomous snake's tail. With a loud clash of cymbals, a rich tango, more what you'd call Latin than I'd call Irken, filters in over the background noise and chattering of gathered groups of Irkens. Loud, the tones are pure and heavy like a thick, sweet wine. Gregg, not one to easily back down, matches both Willow's hostile stare and the unfriendly tone of what would normally be called a "lover's dance."
Willow, her high heels clicking against the smooth ground, half-circles around Gregg. "Overprotective, overbearing male chauvinist," Willow says deeply, her accusing voice lost in the tones of the music.
Gregg, stepping forward to match her movements in rhythm, stares deeply into her eyes. "Flamboyant, communist lesbian," he accuses, holding up a single gloved hand.
Willow, her matching hand held behind her back, holds up her opposite hand so that the flats of their palms are facing one another, but not touching in mid-air. "You wouldn't know what was good for a woman if it hit you on the head," she accuses.
Gregg seizes her hand in the air, throwing his arm around her middle and dipping her back so that her long, split antennae sweep across the marble floor. Taking the lead, he takes a single step forward. "You're a traitorous bitch," he accuses smoothly.
Of course, none of this is actually happening. I'm just imagining it happened this way in my head because it makes the memory more exciting than Gregg and Willow standing with their hands on their hips, eyes flaming, raising their voices to one another.
"Your father didn't want you," Willow argues back, suddenly throwing his hand off his back and in front of him, seizing the lead as she takes a step in the other direction.
"My father? Ha! Your whole department doesn't want you around," Gregg snaps, snatching back the lead by gripping Willow with one hand and spinning her around, then throwing her off balance so she falls backwards against his chest.
"He called you an accident," Willow hisses, getting around behind him and twisting his arm in an attempt to retake the stolen lead.
"They call you a distraction," Gregg argues, barely managing to hold his lead by clinging so tightly onto Willow's gloved hand that it looks like she might lose circulation in her fingers.
"You're just jealous because I'm better in the sack, and you're afraid Original knows it." In a split second, Willow had regained the lead and step-pulled Gregg halfway across the floor.
"Better to be poor in the sack than a slut," Gregg retorts, bringing her sashay across the dance floor to a dead halt and attempting to jerk her back the other way, grabbing the lead from her control.
"Better to be a slut than a prude," she answers, firmly holding her position even though Gregg retains the lead.
"You're an ugly shrew of a woman."
"And you're the most disgusting specimen of supposed manhood I've seen in years of dealing with them and their slimy seed."
"Whore."
"Mama's boy."
"You pray on poor, emotionally confused women… like a black spider, or creature that lives on the floor of a closet."
"And you're no better, military boot licker. You're a scavenger that gets by, by leeching off the successes of others."
"Ha! You should talk! You stole your way into power!"
Faster and faster they spin, the sound of clapping hands surrounding them as both feverishly keep pace with one another, neither wanting to fall. Willow's dress flails around her legs, her heels clicking in pace with her dance. Gregg's boots thud against the floor, dull but loud like the sound of thunder.
"You're a bad influence on the girl!" they shout in unison, coming to a stunned stop when they realize they've spoken the same words at once. The last tone of the dance sounds, leaving them stranded in the middle of the floor, amidst clapping at their amazing attempts at one-upmanship.
Of course, they're really just standing beside me, glaring at one another. The clapping is for the real dancers, performing in glitter and bangles at the center of the floor. Willow throws her head back, acting superior. Gregg attempts to mimic her move and nearly falls over.
"Can't you two just get along?" I ask sadly, staring down at my boots.
There's a moment of awkward silence amongst our group before we resume just kind of hanging around the punch bowl. I make polite conversation while Gregg and Willow give each other dagger-sharp glares.
About three hours into the party, a loud woman's scream rings out. Tallest Red, it seems, has just dumped an entire bowl of fruit punch on tallest Purple's head. Tallest Purple, in response, has punched Tallest Red in the ribs. The two tallests, screaming drunken slurs at one another, pushed one another violently.
Gregg reaches out to grab my hand as angry Irkens stampede about, pushing into one another, generally trying to either get out of the way of the fighting or rushing the front of the room to take sides slugging with the tallests. Before he can reach me, however, Willow grabs my arm and drags me away and through a side door.
I duck and twist, trying to avoid getting kicked in the head by the throngs of Irkens hovering about me, piling on one another as they try to push their way out of the ball room. Gregg, following behind us, screams angrily at Willow, but his words are lost in the din of the crowd.
"Everyone knows the royal celebration isn't over until the tallests start a drunken brawl!" Willow laughs as she pulls me along the hallway, essentially dragging me around. I have no particular desire to go with her, but at this point if I don't I'll be crushed under boots and sharp looking heels.
Gregg manages to catch up with us by throwing himself on top of the crowd of fleeing Irkens. Instead of body surfing, he was body swimming, pushing himself over their heads with his palms and heels. Tumbling off the top of the crowd he lands beside Willow and myself, crying out in agony and gripping his bruised ribs.
"You should have tried to land on your feet," Willow scolds.
Gregg moans. "Thanks, I'll remember that next time I'm riding on top of a crowd of panicked Irkens, trying not to get kicked or to kick anyone in the face," he says sarcastically, pushing himself off the ground and to his feet.
Willow shakes her head at him, considering him only a minor annoyance to her at this point in time. "Come on, let's go back to my nest and suck down some expensive wine, it's too early for the night to end," she says dramatically, lifting her arms and her eyes towards the ceiling lights. It probably would have been more dramatic if we'd been outside under the stars.
"I don't think I want to go to your nest," Gregg says quietly, taking my arm and starting to lead me away. "After all, Original and I have to study. For our tests."
"But Gregg, I want to see Willow's nest," I whine unhappily. I really do. I've never seen a nest before; those of us without the benefits and privilege of high rank only have our incubators and a locker-like cubby below for storing personal items.
Willow guides us through twisted hallways, like mazes or the tunnels of an earthen ant's home. I'm not sure which it would be more accurate to compare it to. Perhaps more like a cave. Some hallways were so narrow that we had to walk single file, other areas were so spacious that we could barely see the sky above our heads and we could have walked with our arms outstretched fingertip to fingertip without bumping into anything.
Eventually we end up walking up a winding staircase made of glass, illuminated from beneath with a soft pinkish-brown tint that really flattered Willow's mature features. Willow pauses, looking back down the stairs, her face slightly amused but also concerned. "Is something wrong, Gregg?"
I look back, my eyes doubling in size from shock. He's a good two flights below us, clinging to the railing. His eyes are wide. He's gasping for air, as though the victim of a gas attack. His chest heaves, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. His knees knock together like his legs were made of jelly, and he seems on the verge of collapse.
"Gregg!" I cry, running back down. Willow follows, moving amazingly quickly for a woman in high heels.
"I… I… I…" he mutters, shaking.
"Get him onto my back," Willow volunteers. "I'm stronger, I can carry him to my place and we can call for help."
I put my hand under his foot. "Don't lift me!" Gregg screams loudly, suddenly digging his fingers into the railing. Willow jumps back in surprise, as do I, but we jump in opposite directions. His body shakes. "Just… don't… lift me…"
It takes me a moment to realize what's going on. "You're afraid of heights, aren't you?" I ask softly.
"NO!" he cries, but his eyes and trembling body say yes.
Willow takes a step down the stairs, her body rigid, always maintaining her aloof posture. "Cover his eyes and guide him. If he can't see the danger, he won't be afraid."
"Danger?" Gregg squeaks.
"You only think it's dangerous, honey," I say softly, patting his arm. "It's okay, I'll guide you. I won't let anything happen to you." I'm so concerned with him that I even manage to ignore the fact that Willow's making critical gagging noises in the background.
Between Willow and myself, one of us holding each of Gregg's arms, we manage to get him to the top of the stairs. Once we're there, we pause for him to catch his breath. As he does, Willow points out a steel elevator we can take to get back down to ground floor. Despite the fact that his voice oozes distrust of her, he still manages to thank her for the information.
Willow's nest is at the end of the hallway, near a potted plant. The door is a thick brown slab with a single glass-covered hole in it to see who is outside your door before answering it. She presses her hand on a tan square, a slightly lighter color than the surrounding brown walls, and the door slides open from left to right with a quiet "thwunk" sound.
As soon as we're inside the door, Willow kicks off her heels, letting them rebound off the wall. "Whoo!" she laughs, "I thought those things were going to cut off my circulation!"
"But you always wear heels," Gregg points out, still weakly hanging off my arm.
"I wear them because they're style, not because they're comfortable," Willow shrugs as she lets the clips out of her antennae. "Ah, that feels so good! Well, come on. Drop your shoes and come inside!"
The "nest" consists of three rooms, a large room with a kitchenette area, a smaller room containing an incubator, and a medium sized room containing a bodily fluid dumping canister and a cleansing chamber. I notice curiously that the incubator is big enough for two. Perhaps Willow often entertains "guests," I think, then let it drop. Considering that she's placed moves on me, I don't want to think about Willow's personal life any more than I have to.
Willow sweeps us into the large room, bringing us fancy wineglasses and pouring out a glass of something white and bubbly that would probably take me over a year to save up for one bottle of. "If you want more, I've got more," she says cheerily, filling up her own glass and throwing herself down on the couch.
"After all that time of you drinking our soda, you'd have to get us pretty drunk to make it even," Gregg snorts, sipping lightly at his drink. Gregg's not a big fan of alcohol. I pat his leg to give him silent praise for being a good sport about it anyway.
Willow curls her legs up underneath her body as she sits on the couch, picking at the seam of her white fishnet stockings. They match her silver dress better than I would have imagined, I note silently in my head. I don't feel a need to tell Willow this; Willow already praises herself better than I ever could.
"To your health," Willow smiles, raising her glass in the air. "And to Original passing her test."
"I'll drink to that, even if you did make the toast," Gregg responds, lifting his glass and taking a drink. Sighing, I follow his actions and sip at the drink. Its strangely sweet, yet also bitter. While I taste the sugar my face crinkles up from the sourness. How one drink can be so full of contradictions, I'm not sure. This wine, I think, tastes like Willow and Gregg's tango. Still I know that it tastes good on my tongue and smooth in my mouth, so I take a long, slow sip of it. After all, who knows when the next time I'll get to taste something so delightfully expensive again will be?
The opening of the front door suddenly shatters our moment of relaxation. Willow jumps to her feet, like she'd been shot. Standing in the doorway, a tall male with dusty red eyes stares confusedly at us. He's as lanky as a beanpole, looking like he hasn't been properly feed in days. There are dark bags under his eyes that make them look hollow, like the bony eyes of a corpse. His hands are long and thin, looking more like claws than actual hands.
Pressing myself against Gregg, thinking the Irken an intruder, I cry, "Who is that?"
I expected an answer from Willow, since the tense way she and the male stare at one another suggests that she knows him. To my surprise, the answer comes from Gregg instead. "That's Raine, absolute head of the Smeet Engineering department, and Willow's mate," Gregg smirks.