Violet Doodle
An odd static sound filled Oleander's classroom. It whirred like electricity running through a tube. At times, it pitched to an uncomfortably strained degree only to quiet down seconds later. Whenever that happened, Chloe released the knob on the coach's radio, then let her shoulders slacken, realizing she had not yet reached her people.
She heard the Fathian stifle a yawn behind her. Bobby stood guard, a position he had taken upon himself. She hadn't asked him to protect her, nor was she a wallflower or as vulnerable as many campers believed, but she appreciated his tenacity. While he concentrated on the possibility of imminent danger such as the monstrous lungfish returning, she focused on her task.
He was under the assumption that the aliens would come to protect them. That was more unlikely than he believed. Violent species unaffiliated with the Greater Galactic Community were too primitive to receive her communication. Instead of engaging in warfare, the esteemed Community would initiate emergency rescue procedures and beam Chloe off the planet. (And she supposed Bobby would tag along as well, considering his duty as an ambassador.)
Silence stretched between them. While some might have perceived it as awkward, needless chatter would have distracted her. She needed to listen to the radio waves, twisting and turning the knobs in slight degrees to breach through the planet's atmosphere. She tapped the antenna and heard the frequency weaken, and she readjusted it back into position, deciding to focus on the stations she could test for a second time.
The floorboards creaked. The sound of the floral cushions decompressing behind her came as a surprise. Bobby must have sat down on the makeshift couch. She didn't look over her shoulder to check, noting the different posture of his shadow across the ground. He had been standing for around an hour waiting to attack any intruder, so if he needed to rest his legs, then she didn't mind at all.
A pen cap popped off. Strokes on a piece of paper followed. Chloe stopped tuning for a moment and trained her ears on the sound. The strokes were light, quick brushes against the page, sketching without striving for perfection.
Chloe looked over her shoulder, curious. Bobby didn't notice, his head lifting for a second to stare at her, then dropping back to this notepad. But when they locked eyes again, he gasped and jumped to his feet, loosening his grip on a highlighter, Chloe watching as it hit the ground from her spot standing on the chair.
"O-oh, Chloe, sorry. I should, uh, keep watching, right?" he asked, avoiding her gaze.
"Well, you don't have to ask me to rest. It's necessary to ensure maximum work output, so your reaction is strange to me," she said, eyeing the notepad. "What were you drawing?"
Bobby lifted the highlighter off the ground and pursed his lips as best as his overbite allowed. "Y'know, just stuff. Nothin' really good enough to show."
Considering how swiftly his strokes sounded, she deemed that to be true. He was entitled to his privacy and did not pry further. But as she turned back to the radio, her attention landed on the ceiling. Oleander had decorated his classroom with posters and children's artwork over the years. The closest drawing had faded from the sunlight. It featured a scene of psychic warfare between an ambiguously devilish monster and a boy in a brown outfit. He PSI blasted the beast, the large blue circles culminating near the creature's head in a successful attack with a tangerine burst of color erupting from its head.
She wondered if any of the drawings belonged to him. She had seen his technical and creative skills firsthand, believing he must have improved compared to the rather crude artwork taped to the ceiling. Her interest piqued, she asked, "Looking at the pictures here, did you ever give one of yours to Coach Oleander?"
Bobby's nose immediately wrinkled. "No way."
She nodded. The relationship between Oleander and Bobby had already been fraught with strife. She wasn't sure how their dynamic became estranged and hostile, but it seemed to have happened over the years. It was more likely than not the result of Bobby's persistent antagonism toward authority. And with Oleander being one half of a brain-stealing duo, she doubted Bobby would ever consider gifting the coach with his artwork in the future.
She watched him stuff his highlighter back in his hair. He thumbed through the notepad, Chloe catching glimpses of line art and flashes of color. He stopped on what she assumed was his most recent drawing, the harshness in his features softening as best as they could, before he glanced at the radio.
"So, no luck with the aliens?" he asked, and she shook her head.
"Not yet. I'll resume my attempts." She pivoted on her heels and pulled the radio closer. "Hopefully, they'll respond sooner rather than later."
He barked out a shrill, bird-like laugh. "Yeah! And they'll kick the coach's ass!"
Chloe decided against correcting him. She had her people to contact, and spending unnecessary time explaining herself was costly. It was better to let him believe the aliens would arrive with their guns blazing. It was also common for Fathians to pursue violent, vengeful strikes over peaceful evacuations, so she let him believe what he surmised was true.
As she tuned the radio, she heard him pop off the pen cap again. The same quick, light strokes hit the page. He had resumed drawing, and she decided to leave him to his artwork. Before Oleander invaded with his brain tanks, she needed to reach her people. When he was finished, she knew he'd return to surveying their location for enemies, her trust in him unshakeable at the end of the world.
(Looking at Chloe, Bobby put the finishing touches to his sketch. Compared to his graphic landscapes and gory depictions of humanity, it was a violet helmet. Two thick lines rounded the back and rim. Brushing against the rim was a pair of shoulders that extended into the body of a small girl. She stood on a chair, her outstretched arm blocking the angular radio that seemed to be around her size. The background was relatively simplistic with a crosshatch design acting as the shadows. Grinning, Bobby slipped the notepad and highlighter back in his threadbare pockets, and he jumped to his feet, more than rejuvenated to continue protecting her.)
