Of Rhythms, Anchors and Rain

	The fire blossoms in your awareness. You stand in the personnel bay, windows consumed by the shadows of a fleet far larger than you’d ever seen in one place. There, in the thousands, jagged black and gold masses bristling with weaponry. Missiles streak across the hull of your vessel, junk comes spilling out of hull breaches and into the void, blasts rock the ship every few seconds. Alarms blare in your ears, louder, louder, louder, until you’re screaming, your skull is splitting and your teeth itch and your body freezes.

…

	You bolt awake, eyes wide and casting a familiar glow on the deactivated inside of your helmet, your breathing unsteady and heavy. Your fingers flex and you feel the calming purr of the suit’s engine start to rattle you gently, beginning to shake the night’s anxiety off of you. The lights on the inside of your helmet slowly come on, adjusting your eyes to the light steadily, until the camera flickers on.

	Morning light filters into your room through the small skylight above, though it is quite heavily raining. You can hear the rhythmic patter, and like every little calming noise, you latch onto it, letting it further drag you out of your dream state and into the much kinder world you inhabit. Dark memories wash off of you like a thick sludge in the daylight, and as they disappear beneath the murky waves of your recollection, you feel a relief. It’s something of a rollercoaster, each day.

	Your room is small, but eccentric. You’ve practically filled its every nook and cranny with little bits of merchandise and art you’ve come to collect in your daily trips to the market. Some of the figurines and curiosities you didn’t quite recognize, but merely liked the look of. A stick of your own incense wafts a faintly violet smoke into the room, another sense you use to anchor yourself back to this world for the day.

	Admittedly, starting up is hard. You spend maybe the first hour just collecting yourself in your room; you stand almost vacantly under the skylight, watching raindrops tap at the window and watching the patterns in the clouds pass by. You’re glad you picked a rainy planet to take root on; ever since you woke up that first day with the rain sliding along your metal form, you’ve found it endlessly comforting.

	You’re excited to get to the market today, first thing in the morning, because there’s supposed to be a shipment of exotic spices coming in from some of the barrier territories, so you don’t have quite as much time to wake yourself up as usual. You gather your clothes and beeline for the bath, excited to complete your morning ritual and get out the door.

	You brush your teeth, you sharpen them a touch, especially your fangs (a feature you were always proud of), you run the bath, and you let your suit split open, pulling yourself out of it for the first time today. Were it unable to act without your direct, physical connection, this whole process would be much more difficult, but it simply plucks you out of its chassis, gives you a moment to undress, and sets you gently in the bath water, topping it off with a colorful, glittering bath bomb. With a little snap of your fingers, the candles you enshrine your bath with all light, and you sink into the vibrant water.

	The sensation of direct contact with your body is… rare, and sometimes a bit overwhelming. It feels like the water is reaching underneath your skin and its warmth flows against your insides, and without the rebreather of the suit’s helmet, the candles smell far stronger than normal. None of it is unpleasant, but as you relax you have to breathe steadily and carefully, not move too harshly against the water, and to scrub gingerly.

	You reunite with your suit, which was gracious enough to (under your command, of course) go off and brew you some tea. Of course, in your hurry and absentmindedness, you rush straight past the steaming cup on the table and out the door.

	The city is massive, almost intimidatingly so, but you always did love big cities such as this. The heights, on the other hand, are a touch challenging, but your therapist suggested that a mild form of daily exposure would be valuable in reducing those anxieties, and so you trudge on. Down rain-slicked stone footpaths ensconced in metal you go, your mind briefly slipping and growing lost in the rhythm of the rain until you accidentally bump into a Vokat, a stammering slurry of apologies spilling from you immediately as he smiles and laughs heartily, patting you on the shoulder and slipping past you.

	Down to the market. It’s a long walk, another thing that helps you recover; the movement of your legs in the suit helps keep them strong. You pass by many people, garnering strange but rarely hostile looks, as well as little smiles and nods from denizens of the city who’d come to recognize you and followed the same routes that you did. You were modestly well known among the populace, a gentle giant with an odd shell that always made the same walk, day in and day out.

	You pass by little shops, colorful neon signs breaching the rain and glimmering across wet stone, and you admire the nature displays, floating platforms along the walkways and bridges adorned with beautiful trees taken all the way from Kasunn, thriving brilliantly in the wet and cold atmosphere of this world. Ships pass through the vast chasms in the metal mountains on which these cities are built, and droves of little transports come and go from the city, bringing cargo and tourists.

	It’s all a little overwhelming, sometimes. A whole lot of sights, sounds, a whole lot of colors and rhythms, footsteps and rain, to get lost in, and you wouldn’t really have it any other way.

	The walk feels short as a result. In the deeper portions of the city, on a wide and long platform overlooking the service corridors at the city’s base, hundreds of tents and booths are set up under the cover of a hard-light lattice that deflects the rain. Small personal transports pull over from the stream of self-operating vehicles that pass by to visit.

	There are larger and more formal shops higher in the city, but it is here where craftsmen and their ilk traded special goods meant for small but dedicated audiences, of which you are absolutely a part. Others in the market are quick to recognize you, smiles and waves and little hellos traded between you and them as you pass into its midst, eyes peeled for a particular booth.

	A Feltaka, always possessed of a faintly unsettling grin, presides over this booth. She is an importer of rare and unusual spices, ones which you found invaluable to your crafts, and she’s one of your best friends in this city. You shuffle up to her tent, dazzled by colorful powders and collections of strangely shaped leaves in pouches, as well as a freshly cracked metal crate containing a whole lot of things.

	“Hi, Malaima! Ah, h-how are you?”

	“Echo, ahaha! My favorite customer, welcome, welcome! I’m excellent, as you can probably tell! I know exactly why you’re here, and I’m just as excited as you… ahh, but let’s not rush into the business, hmm? How are you, my friend?"

	“I’m, ahh, l-last night was a bit tough, but, I’m okay. I, um, was excited this morning at least…! I w-was kind of, looking forward to that shipment all last week…”

	“Of course, of course! You and all your fancy scents, yes.” She reaches down, scooping two armfuls of little jars and pouches out of the crate, and spills them right onto the counter. “Let’s talk, my big metal friend.”

	The two of you talk for what feels like almost an hour. It’s hard not to get lost in conversation with someone who shares your interests so; she shows you all the strange things she’s been sent, black and gnarled roots with a heavy, earthy scent and colorful, psychedelic bramble that burns with dancing, glowing smoke. Another rhythm to get lost in, another way to anchor yourself to this moment, to your new life, this time the rhythm of conversation.

	After all of that, you go home with two bags full of carefully packed jars and pouches. Maybe you overspent a bit, but it’s easy for you to get overeager about your passions, especially because Malaima is such a clever saleswoman. Into your workshop you disappear, once again walking right past that now cold cup of tea and forgetting entirely to eat… eh, you’ll just stuff your face at the end of the day once it catches up to you.

	No, for now, you have to unwind with your spoils, sorting them carefully and beginning to plan out new projects to undertake with them. Another rhythm, another anchor, of pen on paper and the clinking of jars. Such rote tasks hold you to this world, keep your mind together and happy.

	By the time you’re done exploring all of the possibilities and making your plans, and also by the time you’ve passed a dreamless nap you did not intend to take, a pit has caved into your stomach calling for food and the twin suns of this world have sunk below the horizon. You toddle drowsily from your workshop, awkwardly eying the long forgotten cup and forgetting about it one more time, going to gather up a pile of fruits and vegetables from your kitchen and chow down. You know… a normal meal.

	With another freshly brewed cup of tea, you disappear back up to your bedroom for the night’s winding-down ritual. Another piece of advice from your therapist—distractions and the like can keep your mind grounded, but it’s equally as important to take some time to yourself and learn to ground yourself in their absence.

	You have a room dedicated just to this end. It’s all but empty, but for a vent through which smoke can filter out and pillows and bedding strewn out on the ground. Your suit once more plucks you out of itself, setting you gently down on the floor to start entering your meditative state while it makes some preparations. You have a bit of trouble getting your legs in the right spot, as they defy you somewhat, but as with each night you eventually figure it out.

	Candles, incense, of course. With a warm cup of calming tea cradled in your lap, your tail wound around yourself, the smell and intermingling colors of your own incense filling the air, and dim candlelight chasing the shadows out of every corner of the room and mixing with the conflicting sky-blue of your markings, the suit comes to rest beside you, there as soon as you might need it. Your eyes drift shut, your breathing grows slow and steady, and you reflect.

	…

	In your sleep, the suit gently takes the tea from your hands and sets it down. Taking advantage of the deep sleep-states of Lyxaris, it gently ushers you back into its interior, its metal embrace closing around you and carrying you back to your room, where its legs lock and it begins to power down for the night. Under the skylight, dim grey moonlight pours over your suit, and the rhythm of hard rain on glass keeps you steadily asleep.