Halo 03: Inner Monologue(s) of Depressed Youth(s)
It turned out that the people of the fortress--which was, in fact, a walled village named "Fanelia" that reminded Johnny of the adobe sky city he saw once in New Mexico, but on some sort of medieval high--seemed very much like a collective for tradition-oriented, anal-retentive knights that could be found quoting the codes of chivalry and tying scarves to their helms.
They were the Earth equivalent of a pack of soccer moms and Southern Baptist dads, but with badass swords and armor. In short, they were people with which Johnny would not get along for long, nor would they relish him after learning more about his personality.
But at least they're being hospitable, he thought, curled up on the windowsill and watching the people mill about below. His chin was resting on his folded arms. It helps that little twerp is actually prince of this fucking place. Contacts in high places. I guess that they mean well, so long as you're a perfect little member of their society, or are willing to reform into one anyway. Jesus fucking Christ. Is that what they want to do with me? Mold me into one of them? Fuck, there goes that paranoia shit again. Where the hell is Nailbunny?
Hmmm… 'reform', 'conform', which is a better word for this situation? Johnny burrowed down into his arms and narrowed his eyes. Hospitable though they were, they had searched Johnny's bag and had confiscated his weapons, pointless measures for security. People were easily killed with plastic sporks and curtain rods. If it gave the people some piece of mind, so much the better for them. Somebody would have to ask them once again how secure they felt when they were all lying face-down in pools of their own blood with curtain rods shoved through their eye sockets.
And I'm actually hungry for once. My agenda of living without succumbing to needs and desires is going straight into the fucking ground with all of my other dreams. The vicious circle never ends. It never. Fucking. Ends--
A girl swung down into the window frame and dangled upside-down in front of Johnny's face. Johnny blinked. She appeared to be very much human in body shape and facial structure, but she also had large, catlike ears, claws, and what Johnny was sure was a tail, from what he could see. She also had bubblegum-pink hair.
And on second thought, her face looked pretty feline as well--
The cat blinked, swung into the room--landing neatly on her feet--and turned to face Johnny. Her tail bristled and stood up as she started to pace in circles around Nny, hands folded behind her back.
She did not look amused.
I already dislike this thing…
"And who are you?" the cat-girl asked in high-pitched, singsong tones.
Johnny waited for a moment. "…Johnny," he said after some careful thought. "Johnny C., at your service, but you may call me 'Nny' for short."
Johnny bowed elegantly. The cat-girl straightened. She looked even more displeased than she was before.
"See? What kind of a name is 'See'? Hey!" The girl circled around Johnny, once again scrutinizing every detail of his body. "What are you wearing? I've never seen clothes like this before." She clicked one of her claws against a buckle on Johnny's boot. "They're weird."
At least she didn't say 'wacky'. It just saved her fucking life.
"Yeah, sure. Um, listen…" Johnny sat down on the twin bed against the wall that was covered with an elaborately-woven, rough blanket that even more strongly enhanced the adobe gestalt. He bounced a little. The mattress felt like it was filled with straw.
He narrowed his eyes at the cat-girl.
"I'm not in a great mood right now, and since you're like, what -- ten? -- I am going to be nice and allow you to walk out of here with all of your claws still inside your fingers. Or whatever you call them on a cat. Anyway, you've probably been programmed by the fucks that run this place. Can't blame kids for that until they get a little older, like that prick of a prince. So get out of here. Leave me to my incessant brooding and boughts of self-loathing."
The cat-girl's tail bristled twice as high as it was already standing. All right, hunch shoulders, clench claws, bar fangs, growl. Such a perfect picture of pointless anger. Such excess.
"I'm thirteen! And--" She snarled and crouched lower. "--what did you call my Van-sama?!"
Johnny held out his hands and leaned forward, a practiced pose that, in the days before most of his hair had been scorched off by the return fires of hell, would have allowed his hair to shadow his eyes. "A prick, a closed-minded prick with a rather mundane mind. Now, if you will excuse me I am going to go far, far away from you before I change my mind about letting you live."
Johnny dropped his hands and began to stand. The cat-girl screamed and attacked his legs.
"HEY! OW! SHIT!"
Johnny untangled himself from the girls' claws and jumped over her, knocking open the loosely-bolted door in the process of landing in the hallway and thanking whatever deity happened to take interest in him -- who also made his life a hell -- for at least giving him height as an advantage and some semblance of agility. He bolted down the hall. A second later, the cat-girl skidded into the hallway and gave chase.
Holy mother fucking Christ, what the hell is this? He turned a corner and ran past several open practice rooms, empty at the moment. There is a half-cat little girl chasing me, I'm stuck in fucking la-la land with Monty Python's reject groupies, and even with all of that shit I never get a break from small-minded rectal tics. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. Bloody hell, I'm not even on Earth and still I have to put up with this waste lock shit. What the hell is a "sama"?
The cat-girl's claws were scraping across the floor rhythmically with her scampering, and getting closer. Johnny could hear the girl panting and making small noises of anger. She was working herself into a fit of hysteria.
She even scampers on all fours like a cat, he noted with a glance over his shoulder. Her body must be formed that way, even. This must be some alternate world in which evolution took odd turns at odd places, or the aliens did it. What defines "odd", anyway? My perception of "normal" based on what I've seen? But she is so very like a human physically that I must wonder if this planet's evolution branched off from ours somehow. Then again, on Star Wars humans live in galaxies far, far away…
Johnny rounded another corner into yet another hallway of practice rooms. Judging by the grunts and yells from one door, one was definitely occupied. He passed and barely glimpsed the very kid whose honor was being defended by Miss Kitty, shirtless, wielding a katana, and getting his ass royally pounded by an abnormally huge, muscle-bound old man swinging a sword about the size of the poor kid's entire body.
Holy shit, roid-monkey alert. Do they even have steroids in this jacked-up hellhole? Wouldn't surprise me, small-minded dicks with their ideals of manhood and knighthood and chivalry. Blah, this is just like high school--
"VAN-SAMAAAAAAAA!!"
The girl's scampering detoured into the room and stopped abruptly. Johnny turned around. The hallway was now vacant.
"Van-sama! I'm so glad you're here, Van-sama!"
"What's wrong, Merle?"
Oh, her name is Merle. God, she has a whiney voice. And what the hell is a "sama", anyway?
The whining continued from within the room, which Johnny could now picture was accentuated with tears and admiring clinging. The old man rumbled something inaudible.
Well, at least she's off my ass for a while. Fuck this. I'm going to get some peace and quiet.
Johnny shoved his hands into his pockets and continued down the wooden hallway, still lost in thought somewhere between Nailbunny and evolutionary theory. Surprisingly, he did not meet a single person.
Pretty quiet back here. Johnny looked up from his thoughts. He had wandered into a back hallway, clean, well-polished, and smelling like lavender. Good thing. Eventually I'll have to go back to my room and get my stuff, damn it.
Something about the lavender made Johnny think of white sheets and fluttering gauze drapes over windows streaming with sunlight and breeze -- and for good measure, singing birds and other such annoying things.
One door toward the end of the hallway was ajar. Johnny walked over to it and peered in. A whiff of compressed, musty air filled his nostrils and airway; he coughed and backed out a few inches. In the sunlight provided by the large hallway windows he could see a dense concentration of dust particles floating out of the room.
Room is as musty as all hell. Somebody must have left the door ajar to air it out. Shit, can anybody actually LIVE in there?
Johnny took a deep breath of clean air and peered into the room again. The window was open, casting a sharp bar of yellow sunlight onto more golden dust-motes. The sun was crossing the sky toward the horizon – past noon, which reminded Johnny how hungry he was. The heavy drapes over the windows, the simple bed in the corner, a set of rounded and Oriental-looking armor on the wall arranged with a katana spearing it diagonally, and the bookshelf were wall covered in dust.
No way in hell this room is still used. Johnny stepped into the room and closed the door behind his back. Must be a guest bedroom or something. Sure know how to stock their guests up on books. Must not be much else to do in this jackhole.
Johnny walked further into the room and felt the sharp, metal toe of his boot catch on the rim of a knothole. He looked down.
Knothole clear through the floor. Rich family wouldn't let that be there without a reason. And judging by the sun-washing patterns around it a rug or something used to be here.
Johnny kneeled down and pried the floorboard loose with his finger. The board lifted with a shower of dust. Johnny coughed and looked down at the hollow recess below. Spiders skittered off of a small pile of dusty, hardback books, startled by the general noise and commotion.
Must be pretty damned good stuff for somebody to hide it. Johnny threw the floorboard aside with a resounding clunk and cloud of dust and reached into the recess. He pulled out a thin, leather bound book with a chord attached to the spine, serving as a bookmark.
Nice leather… Johnny brushed dust off of the slick cover and ran his fingers over the imprint of a curled dragon on the cover. He picked up the charm hanging off of the end of the bookmark and inspected it. It, also, was a dragon.
This place has a little bit of an obsession with dragons, he thought, remembering the wrought iron dragons in the city gates and the dragon statues he saw on his way in. However, unlike this dragon, which was curled, slender, and distinctly Oriental, the dragons all over the palace closely resembled obese manta rays. The thought that they were dragons at all did not come to mind until the prince kid asked Johnny not to poke them.
Johnny brushed the dust off of his gloves and opened the book. The pages smelled musty and old, the characteristic smell of and old volume.
How old is this thing, anyway?
The pages were lined and hand-written in careful, cursive script. Johnny flipped through the pages. The handwriting remained consistent, sometimes in black ink, sometimes in blue or brownish color, with intermittent blotches from a dip pen and a few pages that were wrinkled in places as if left in mild rain. Or tears. Fuck, is this somebody's diary?
Johnny crossed his legs and turned back to the first page. The top entry was brief.
-------
Purple, 2nd Moon
I hate my life. I want to die.
That is all I feel like saying today.
-------
Oh, shit. Johnny grimaced at the open face of the pages. This is some jacked-up angst-ridden adolescent's memoir to suicide and how much life sucks. And the writing isn't even that good. 'I hate my life' and 'I want to die'? Shit.
------
Purple, 3rd Moon
I reinstate that I did not ask to be born into this position. I know that I have said it several times over, but today it manifests itself again. More and more I think that it was a curse that I started by traveling to Asturia on my own. I was much more happy when I was sufficiently sheltered.
The mentality that knowledge, while useful in its most concrete, practical, and sanctioned capacities is safe and all (tangle of scratch-out marks) other more abstract areas of thought are dangerous has left me with no choice but to hide my books from everybody. Van is probably the only person who would not mind or who would support me in any capacity, but he is far too young to understand and would quite possibly let information slip unheeded. Yet, he is still easily spooked by the darker and more esoteric arts, as is understandable. He has been sheltered all four years of his life.
Not only that, he is an emotional kid.
I am making a trip to Asturia once again tomorrow under the ruse of cultural sightseeing and weapon inspecting. As wise as my parents (dark scratch marks) (more dark scratch marks) seem they still believe that I am sheltered and innocent, perfectly content to be the dutiful first son and to carry the mantle of inheritance. My blank, welcoming smile is becoming increasingly immaculate. To everybody here, I am a cheerful, carefree boy without a single thought of anything that would make the most superstitious and jumpy of people scream. The only time I am really smiling is when I am with Van. I feel as if I can be myself.
Van has already shown that he questions and feels for himself, though he plays the dutiful and obedient citizen. The perfect role-model, as he is supposed to be. He is a prince, after all. Royal blood determines so damn much of one's worth.
I hate myself for putting on this mask and not having the courage to show my parents who I really am. Then again, it would change nothing. The would lock me down, take all of my possessions and hide my nature behind the ruse that I am a very scatterbrained, but dutiful and a perfect role-model for the people of this country.
And I loathe who I was just weeks ago. I was that role-model.
--------------
Johnny blinked and rubbed his eyes. In places, the writing got very squished and unclear, forcing him to squint. The kid wasn't starting to sound so dumb after all. Just young and angsty.
This guy should upload this onto DeadJournal. He -- she -- whoever -- would have a fan club. I don't think this is a girl's room, what with the armor and all. Anal-retentive bastards would probably never let a girl of royal blood touch a sword or armor. Or travel on her own. Oh yeah, he said 'boy', right there. Did he say Austria? Is this German?
And… wait. Johnny re-read the writing. This isn't English, hell, this isn't even my alphabet, but I still understand it. It looks like Greek or something. What the fuck is going on?
. . .
Johnny's pupils contracted to the near point of disappearance. IT'S THE CHIPS. THE SCIENTISTS WITH THE FUCKING CHIPS. THEY'RE WATCHING ME AS IF I'M A RAT IN A FUCKING MAZE ON DISPLAY. Shit, I won't give them the satisfaction of… of…
Johnny was quite sure that 'they' wanted him to read the diary (which, in this case, was probably fabricated and stolen from some delusional role-player's DeadJournal) even further, which would mean that the easiest method to piss them off would be to close it and sit quietly for a long time.
It would have been easy had Johnny's curiosity not won the best of him anyway.
-----------
I finished Theories for the New Age of Alchemy yesterday while Balgus gave me a break to help Father with something. Fascinating book, though I must admit that I didn't understand at least half of it. I am a moron. Absolute moron. I have never had formal instruction in any base theory of science or higher mathematics -- 'calculus', it is called -- so this reads like Atlantean to me. I grasped the basis of the theory, though. Particles called 'atoms', to small to be seen by any living creature -- (Johnny had a mental flash of the number 6.022 X 1023) -- create all things in nature, and can be changed and manipulated. How I would love to try that… Alas, the chances of being allowed to go off to an academy and drop all of this king business are about the same as Balgus dropping his samurai duties to be a thespian at the art academy.
I think I have enough money to get another few books. At least the man in the underground shop never asks me for my age. I can pass for being far beyond my years, though. He must assume that I am of age.
-------------
"Of age to do what, kid? Read porn?"
------------
I have heard rumors in the town that a northern nation called Zaibach is beginning to (scratch scratch) initiate a slew of experiments of a highly complex nature that boarders on the fantastic. I have learned both to never trust rumors and always trust rumors one hears on the streets of Asturia, so I can only wonder. Those sorts of rumors never reach Fanelia.
And… oh yeah, I finished Scarlet. I am so, so, so (vigorous scratch marks) fortunate that nobody has caught me…
Tonight is another formal dinner. I dislike my formal clothes. I think an iron maiden would be more comfortable and significantly less embarrassing.
My back is sore again.
------------
Johnny flipped the page, paused, and turned to the very last page of the book. It was blank and hanging half off of the binding. He flipped back a few pages until he found the last entry. Almost the entire book. Kid likes to write.
Johnny flipped back to his reading place and draped the diary on its face over his leg. He intertwined his fingers and rested his chin on the resulting fist.
Alchemy. Inheritance. Prince. King. Royal. This is a hell of a lot like the Middle Ages. Or Dungeons and Dragons or Final Fantasy or some other such shit.
…what the hell is Scarlet?
Johnny leaned down and dug around in the small collective of books in the hole, pushing aside various titles on theory and history and what he assumed judging by the pentacles etched onto the covers was some form of Wicca. Near the bottom of the pile was a red-dyed book with the title Scarlet written in the spine – in a different language than the diary, which Johnny could also for some reason understand. Damn sadistic experimenters.
This ought to be good…
Johnny opened the book to a dog-eared page near the center.
----------
It has been noted that homosexual couples, unlike heterosexual couples, tend to concentrate most fully upon making each other feel as good as possible for as long as possible, taking in every sensation and second for its full value. Heterosexual couples tend to have the mentality of working toward a goal – the moment of climax – and having this in the back of mind during the entire process of sex. This creates the feeling that the small things – the act itself, foreplay, kisses and touches – are on a lower plane of existence (or a slope, if we picture the act as sloping up to a peak) and, while greatly enjoyed, are not considered the most integral part of the act.
So, we encourage heterosexual couples (the vast majority of our readers) to experiment with merely taking in every second as the most integral, making the entire act an act of worship and not concentrating on a "goal"…
------
Johnny finally tore his eyes away from the book and slammed it shut. He stared ahead of him blankly for a few moments.
It's a fucking sex manual. He ran a shaky hand over his face. The rest of his body was not too sturdy in comparison. Holy shit. This kid reads this stuff to get off.
Johnny took a few deep breaths and collected his thoughts. In the first place, that was not graphic at all, so why the hell was it affecting him? It's not like he picked up full frontal porn or something. It was an entirely theoretical passage that, in retrospect, did sound very much like Wiccan theory, but without a single mention of the God or the Goddess.
I'm not Wiccan or anything so I probably don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. But… FUCK, that's not even the point right now. ARGH.
Johnny grasped his head. Damn it, I'm living without responding to urges, aren't I? I will not respond to any carnal, base longings of the flesh, driven by the hormones of this disreputable machine. I have conquered that part of myself. Yes, frozen, utterly frozen.
A voice in the back of Johnny's head laughed. Johnny growled and shoved it back into his mind.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP! I AM NOT IN THE MOOD FOR ANY SHIT FROM ANY ONE OF MY DERRANGED INNER VOICES! DO NOT TRY TO BREAK MY WILL!"
The voice went silent.
One's own voices will try to break one's own will. So broken, so pathetic, that one's urges and one's self are in conflict. Inhabiting the same body gets crowded.
Johnny made a dark face and picked up the book lying closed in his lap. I'll show you. Watch. I NO RESPOND!
Johnny opened up to a random page and stared at it. There was a well-detailed line art picture of a woman with her head buried between the legs of another woman, the latter of whom looked in a state of ecstasy.
". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ."
Johnny's hands were shaking by the time he returned to his senses enough to remember where he was and what he was doing. The book fell to the floor.
He was getting aroused.
A fragment of the (screaming) conversation he had with Reverend MEAT not long ago came to mind: "I'll forget my stomach if I'm hungry! Shut off my want if I'm lonely! Tear off my genitals if I'm aroused! EXCESS! SO MUCH EXCESS!!"
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!"
Johnny stood up, swayed, and ran himself into the wall. The bed frame and the bookshelf rattled with the force, escalating as Nny kept slamming his back—shoulders—back—head—head—arm—
"NO! NO, I REFUSE TO BECOME A CREATURE GOVERNED BY SUCH DISGUSTING URGES AND DESIRES AS THOSE OF THE FLESH. BASE! THE MOST CRUDE OF HUMAN EMOTIONS AND DESIRES, CLOSEST TO THE ANIMAL-LIKE STATE OF MOST 'PEOPLE' I HAVE HAD THE DISPLEASURE OF MEETING! I REFUSE!"
The pain and slamming were not improving the situation at all. Contrary, the situation was escalating in both meanings of the term.
This was not the effect Johnny wanted.
"Fuck…" Johnny stopped slamming himself into the stone wall and rested his cheek against the rock. The stone was cool and rough against his flushed cheek. "I'm a masochist. Of course, pain gets me off. Fuck, that didn't help at all. Shit. Shit shit shit shit.
"…I really hate myself…"
Johnny slid down the wall, curled, and clutched his knees to his chest, forcing himself to breathe slowly. This is so fucking disgusting. Shit. I'm disgusting. I have an erection and there's fucking nothing I can do about it but wait until I go limp. I utterly despise the human machine.
…why the hell am I in here again…
-----------------------------------
Dilandau, Gatti, and Migel finally reached the Vione after many failed and clumsy attempts to pick up Nny's car with their Alseides units' claws in the solid form. It was proving to be quite impossible until Migel suggested that they partially melt their claws to mould them around the car and, with that much firmer of a grip, haul the car up to the fortress.
It worked. The glory would have been significantly more glowing had Dilandau not been cross for being outthought in a matter involving a guymelef.
Migel sat in the cockpit of his Alseides, still nursing his chin from the slap he had received 'for not MOVING' when he, Gatti, and Dilandau found themselves walking down a narrow corridor to report and he had slowed momentarily to think on something, which now he had forgotten, leaving Dilandau momentarily trapped behind him. Migel and Gatti knew damn well that Dilandau was just bitter, but it didn't do well to say anything.
The fact that Dilandau was far more cross than he should have been for a mere correction of his logic was shown by his election to use the back of his hand, which was armored with metal gauntlets.
Migel removed the gauze from his lip and checked the area that had been touching the broken skin, noting that the blood flow was slowing. He placed a clean area to his lip and sat back in his seat. Dalet and Chesta would already be in position to attack the Fanelian capital by now, along with a few soldiers of lower rank under their command. It was going to be an easy, in-and-out mission. The Fanelian guymelefs were old and in poor repair, far slower and weaker than Zaibach's models. Besides, the Zaibach melefs had the stealth mantles, which were worth their weight in platinum, never mind gold.
It doesn't keep me from worrying, though. Migel settled back in his seat and chanced a brief glance at the gauze before replacing it. Hell, even Chesta is being less of a worrywart than me about this mission. I really need to lighten up.
Contrary to first impressions, Dalet was not as reckless as he seemed due to his hypomanic behavior. He was surprisingly responsible and level-headed in battle. By the same token, Chesta was not nearly as innocent or timid as he appeared on the surface, a fact that became twice as evident when he was behind the controls of his Alseides.
Guymelefs do odd things to people. Migel looked at the gauze. The bleeding had stopped. He crumpled the gauze in his fist. It is like wearing a mask or a disguise. One is much braver behind armor or a mask. There is more of an awareness of the advantages one holds and of the damage one can do.
Had Dalet been capable of hearing his internal monologue, he would have told Migel not to think so hard and tie himself into knots. Migel smiled to himself and undid the top buttons of his jacket so that he could reach into his undershirt and pull out a translucent, blue sphere on a gold chain. The sphere was inlaid into a curled golden fish.
'It's a water medallion from the mermen,' Dalet said the day he gave it to Migel. 'Supposedly it is supposed to make you relax and flow easily with situations, like fish in water. Or like water itself. I forgot. Whatever. You need it badly.'
'Oh, that's what it is. At first I thought it was an ice medallion.'
'No, the last thing you need is to be more uptight and frozen.' Dalet had kissed Migel on the forehead on that point, something that reminded Migel that Dalet was, as he kept bragging, a full cil taller than Mig. That was the cardinal reason Dalet used that sign of affection.
'Right, because you're taller you're automatically the dominant one in this relationship.'
'No, I think that would be because I have such a dominating persona," Dalet half-whispered, half growled into Migel's neck. That was one of Dalet's quirks: diving directly for the neck and staying there for a while. It had started the theory that Dalet was a vampire, but after some very bored exploration with a wire one afternoon they determined that his teeth were not hollow so as so properly suck blood.
Migel should have known that using that wording would leave an opening involving 'That only applies only to being unable to suck blood…' The marks on Mig's neck did not disappear for a week. Avoiding everybody to take a shower was a pain. Considering that with mutual affection Dalet was in the same boat, he at least had somebody to suffer with him. The experience had taught them not to lose control in situations in which marking each other's bodies was almost inevitable. They were quite good at pulling things off cleanly now.
Migel ran his finger over the orb thoughtfully and checked his timepiece. Under normal circumstances he would be in endurance training, running laps around the Vione walkways in full armor, but today was given as a free day to those not involved in the attack. Theoretically, 'free day' was supposed to mean 'free workout', but as with most theories the story changed when exposed to real-world application.
The Alseides' intercom went off. Migel opened one eye and pressed the 'answer' button.
"This is Migel Labariel."
"Hey, love. You sound about three times as sexy over the long-range radio."
"I had a feeling it was you." Migel sat back and smiled to himself. "So, how long until you initiate the battle, commander?"
"Hey, as Chesta keeps reminding me, we're co-commanders in this operation. I'm still taking orders from Dilandau-sama anyway."
"Will he care when you start ransacking the place?"
"Just because he needs the security in ordering us around, yes."
"Right, right." Migel ran his thumb around the curve of the orb. "Did he say when the attack is to start?"
"Sunset, love. You know how bad the damn glare on the reverse side of the mantles can be in direct light."
Water. Water. Chill.
"Um, yeah." An awkward silence settled. "So… how are you doing?"
"Great. We really don't have much to talk about, do we?"
"Nope."
"Great. Let's have verbal sex."
Migel almost choked, which took effort considering that nothing was in his mouth.
"These conversations are monitored, you moron!" he hissed.
"Hey, chill." Chill. "Nobody's going to give a damn if we get off or not."
"Other than Dilandau-sama."
"I don't know why he would care."
"He doesn't need a reason, Dalet!" Oh fuck, what if he's listening to this right now? "He's … Dilandau-sama. Doesn't that sum it up?"
"You know what?" Migel could picture Dalet leaning back in his seat and smirking. "I bet he's avoiding his intercom to avoid Folken-sama."
"You're that sure."
"Of course I am, darling."
What the hell sort of a mood is he in? 'Darling'? I would be concerned if I didn't think he got off on those sorts of pet names.
"Oh, fine," Migel said flatly. "Let's go. Look, I'm sucking you off right now. Oh-god, I'm choking. Oh-god-you-are-so-big. Oh baby, oh baby. I want you. Harder."
Dalet started laughing madly. Migel rolled his eyes. Hypomanic son-of-a-bitch…
"Oh, come on." Dalet was almost inaudible with laughter he was trying to choke back in order to talk. "Lighten up. I can picture you scowling right now. Yeah, that's it; roll your eyes at me. It's sexy."
"Fuck you."
"Isn't that what I've been asking for all this time?"
"Maybe, Mr. Kaine, maybe."
"Why are you so formal all of a sudden?"
"Hell, I don't know. It sounds euphonic. Dalet Kaine."
"Euphonic, Mr. Vocabulary. And I like Migel Labariel, but Migel Kaine sounds better."
"I'm not taking your name, jackass. You take mine. Dalet Labariel sounds better anyway."
"I don't think so. I'm supposed to be the dominant one."
"Fuck. You."
"Yes, thank you. That would be nice."
"Up the ass with a crima claw."
"Oh, that's harsh, Mig. Look, I'm going to cry."
"Cry your heart out."
"Because I know that tears get you off, sado-masochist."
Migel could not think of a good response to that one. He had been staring sideways at the intercom for the vast majority of the conversation with crossed arms; he curled back against the cockpit wall and rested his forehead on his fingertips. The shifted position felt more comfortable.
"Are you mad?" Dalet asked.
"No. Why would I be?"
Dalet was silent for a moment. Then…
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…"
"Oh, hell no."
"…you make me happy when skies are gray…"
"Dalet, shove it. I'm serious. I will kick your ass when you get back."
"…you'll never know, dear, how much I love you; oh please don't take my sunshine away…"
"Shove it."
"Oh, come on, Mr. Sunshine. Don't be like that."
Ironically, and Migel was well aware of this, the 'Mr. Sunshine' nickname had come about as a product of his curt and often irritated demeanor. He did know, nor did he want to know, where Dalet had first heard that damned song, but the name had never died and had unfortunately caught on with Chesta and Gatti.
Why am I so irritated all the time, anyway?
"Mig? You there?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
"And just what the hell do you two think you are doing?" Dilandau asked quietly.
Migel's heart jerked to a momentary stop. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit…
"D-Dilandau-sama!" Dalet yelled.
"Da~alet…" (Migel winced; Dilandau only spoke in that tone when he was seconds away from explosion.) "You are supposed to be on alert for a signal to attack, aren't you?"
The tone was chilling. Migel chewed on his lip. Please, please don't say something stupid, you uncouth moron…
"Yes, Dilandau-sama."
"And why aren't you?"
Migel had a vivid mental image of Dilandau leaning back in his seat with one ankle resting on the other knee, holding his head in such a position that his finger pressed into his temple. It was a deceptively beautiful picture of tranquility and self-control. Dilandau's self control was utterly nil. It was at such a level that it was seriously strained to converse calmly for more than twenty seconds after the point at which Dilandau became irritated, which Migel labeled 'point X'.
"Because…"
"Because what, Dalet?" The average outsider would believe that Dilandau was sweetly coaxing Dalet into an answer for which he would be gently scolded. The average outsider soon learned that Dilandau was as gentle as hot coals were soothing on one's face.
"I'm sorry, Lord."
"You should be. And you, Migel--" Migel winced. "--should be running laps around the deck right now, aren't you?"
"Yes, Dilandau-sama." Migel swallowed. His mouth was dry. "I was just about to begin."
"Good. Then I won't keep you any longer. Dalet--" Dilandau's tone changed to a snap. "Get ready to move out."
"Yes, Dilandau-sama."
Dilandau's intercom clicked off. Migel sighed; he was probably still listening in to their conversation. Now would not be the time to say anything unsavory.
"I guess you've got to move," he said dully. Oh, that was smart.
"Yeah. I'll see you later."
"Be careful." Please be careful. Don't make me worry about you any more than I do. I love you.
"Thanks."
Dalet's intercom clicked off. A faint, high-pitched whine of static remained. Migel sighed and shut off the intercom completely. The guymelef became silent.