Hook's Night

You smile, strained, at Indira, and ask, "Do you want another pop?"

She has her chin on the palm of her hand, and watches you in return with a sweet smile. "Oh, that's so nice of you to offer," she chirps, and licks her black lips, tongue tracing over her fangs. You feel like a morsel she's considering gobbling up, and glance at the broken window she came in through. "But really, why would I want anything else when you're already here, my Zephyr?"

You choke out a chuckle, and dig your fingers into your skirt.

She purrs, and looks you over again. "I was worried, you know!" she tells you. "You looked so cute and small the last time I saw you, and then your lights never came on tonight! I thought something must have happened to you."

Stiffly, you nod. She told you that already, when she smashed in the window.

"I mean, you're just so pitiful, you'd be such easy prey for anything that came by..."

In the next room, your computer is chiming.

"... I couldn't just leave you, could I?"

"Of course not," you say, faintly, and curl your nails into the palms of your hands.

"Of course not!" she agrees, pleased that you're giving her lip service, and waves for you to come closer. "Not /you/, not my precious hearts-red Zephyr."

You don't move.

She beckons again, and murmurs, "Come on, love, it's not like we weren't even closer last night~ you were so warm next to me. I want to feel it again."

You kind of wish your nails were long enough, sharp enough, to make your hands bleed. Instead, you step closer, her blue-grey eyes on you. You kind of wish they were sharp enough to make her bleed.

You think of pacifism and clarity of ideals and silence, and let her draw you to her side.

---

She leaves, shrugging the barricade aside like it's not even there, leaving you coiled under a blanket she'd ever-so-kindly tucked around you. As she steps out, she promises to see you again tomorrow, and you echo the sentiment back to her, hollowly, and tell yourself that she'll be dead sometime soon.

When dawn starts to paint the sky blistering blue-white-pink, you stumble to your feet and upend a table in front of the broken window, and sit at your computer, looking things up on Troogle. You write them down, and then smash the husktop, the biological electronics squshing until you're sure the hard drive is destroyed.

The troll who lived here before had a bike. You haven't ridden a bike in years, but you really do never forget; and you wheel it up to the respite block, running your hands over all the pretty things you bought, the eyeshadows and dresses and cheap plastic beads and little skull-adorned hair clips and the heap of yarn and crocheting and polyfill you'd tried to pile with her on.

You tuck three skeins into your sylladex, all together, just in case. Deep in the wardrobifier, you find the pants you start every session with, and squirm into them, into your shirt. You keep the dress you wore for Spades, ribs down the front, and drape the necklace Eleria gave you around your neck, your dongle and the barbie-pink feather bumping together.

You wonder if she expected you to be grateful, that she would grace you with her pity and protection.

Everything else goes in the pile.

You'll set it on fire tonight, you decide.

You keep half the swords. They look saleable, and you're not going to risk using the endless credit card again.

You pack as much food as you think you can bring without weighing yourself down, and strap it to the back of the bike.

You sit down on the pile and think of pacifism and clarity of ideals and wait for night to come again.