#have it again | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

indosentia · 1 day

Text

Rewatching vids about the branding scene with Marazhai, and honestly his whole little speech that essentially equates to “Drukhari are not inhibitors by such an insipid mon-keigh emotion such as love” kind of cements the idea in Bill’s mind that whatever this unusual relationship is a farcical one. It’s transactional, a tit-for-tat situation. To him, she is nothing more than an object, a plaything that he can do with as he pleases.

And honestly? Truthfully? She accepts that. She’s more than willing to do so. Such a sentiment as silly and trivial as love has no place in this life or universe, not when it’s worth is equitable to that of common currency. That it can be bought and sold as easily as any other trading good like weapons or stock. And humans live such short lives when compared to the xenos species. To him, a pet is all she can be.

So it’s incredibly baffling to her when he brings up such topics of “eternity” and “sharing as equals”. Not because of the topic itself, but the reaction she’s met with when it’s rebuffed. When she scoffs and laughs and openly admits the truth of the matter, that she knows he’ll eventually become bored with her.

What she’d had expected was his agreement on the matter.

Instead, she’s met with the opposite. Accusations of her intent to abandon him and the insistence that she cannot follow through with them. She’s met with eyes full of anger, disbelief, vitriol - and something else. Something she does not know, and that which she dares not put a name to. Names give meaning to things, solidifies them into truth. And if there’s one thing she has learned of the Drukhari, of Marazhai, is that they are most anything but truthful.

There are questions that follow, of course. They spill from his mouth, are spat out between snarling teeth. As if it pains him to even let them linger on his tongue. One that will demand answers, and her silence on the matter will not be enough to suffice.

But…what is she even meant to say?

#Marazhai/Bill #I know in-game the matter is resolved within the same conversation #but Bill likes to make things difficult sometimes #(difficult meaning she straight up refuses to see a perspective from any other viewpoint than what she’s already deemed to be true)#and in her eyes that truth means Marazhai does not give a shit about her. no more than he would his favorite blade.#have I written thoughts on this before? idk and idr #have it again

12 notes · View notes

dyrewrites · 6 months

Text

Pale Blood - panic in the pretty lights

Odea bounced. Up and down she bounced, squeaking like an excited mouse. She had kept quiet from the cab to the ticket booth, eyes firmly on the ground until they reached the synth that ran it. There she refused to let Delmas show his ID, shoving her own hand up to the screen and confirming him and Den as her ‘guests’.

Then she rushed into the cab in a flurry of giggles and started to bounce. Little bounces on the balls of her feet, as she hummed a familiar tune. And that tune bothered a sigh from Delmas, but delighted a smirk from Den.

“That big a fan?” Delmas asked her bounces.

The louder squeak was not an answer, but it’s what she gave him.

Den chimed in, fighting another smirk, “Isn’t there something we have to attend to before we meet Mr. Perfect?”

Odea did stop then, to grin up at Delmas, “You told him!”

“I told him,” he repeated, scooting away from the tiny woman’s glee–unfortunately, the cab did not allow him much wiggle room and so this resulted in smashing into the metal siding.

Giggles preceded Den’s remark, “It did take some work.”

“He is so closed off,” Odea told him.

And he nodded before stepping over, to face her, where he rested his chin on the back of his hand, “Like a vault.”

“Did you hear him trying to justify not telling you?” She returned, holding her own chin and nodding dramatically.

“I did,” Den answered, in an equally dramatic fashion.

“I tell ya,” Delmas cut through their gossiping tones, “on the list of things expected today, the two of you bondin’ over my want for privacy wasn’t on it.”

“Privacy,” Odea scoffed, all the playful drama puffing with it as the full extent of what she’d lost of him–and every whispered command–swelled, “Fangs who go digging around in other people’s minds and making them forget do not deserve privacy.”

Den shoved against Delmas’ chest, not moving him an inch, and all but shouted, “You did not!”

“No, I didn’t,” he assured them both before trying to recall what Odea was talking about. But nothing recent included mind games.

The dogs, the thought popped, and the image on Bosch’s screen flickered after, I saved her from the dogs…did I mess with her head then? And his own words played for him–though he hadn’t asked and had no memory of speaking them–‘tell Ron, Del says he's sorry for keeping me.’ But I can’t make anyone forget–correct, he couldn’t, but it was necessary at the time–And that was a week out, at least, why she mad about it now?

They were staring, both of them. He’d been quiet too long and they were staring. So he tried to explain, “I didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t even really remember doing it. I only know I was even there because of Bosch’s fucking cameras.”

Den checked out right about then, as he and Delmas already had the conversation that appeared to be repeating.

He had been to Upper Dolor fewer times than he had fingers and, despite all the hot air everyone blew about it, he didn’t mind much. He didn’t find it all that appealing. But the trip up, soaring straight up in a tight metal box with the whole city stretching out below him...that he enjoyed. And he marveled at the sight, as he had the few times he’d seen it before; picking out all the brightest lights in the rainbow of flashing–and quickly blurring–color that speckled the rough grays and shining blacks of the slums.

A single finger firm on the hardlight–which kept the harsh winds of the ludicrous speed they traveled from turning everyone inside into a spray of blood outside–he thought he had picked out the glaring neon sign that hung near Delmas’ apartment...when Odea groaned so loud he decided to care about the other passengers again.

“You still went poking when you had no right to,” She tapped Delmas’ chest, hard and added, “so I don’t want to hear any of your faeshit about privacy.”

“Fine,” he had no room to throw his arms up, so they made it about halfway, “but you should know that I didn’t poke, I didn’t need to,” and, if he had looked at his more astute boyfriend just then, Delmas would not have said what he was about to say. But he did not, instead he leaned to Odea’s eye level–which shoved her up against the other side of the cab–and said, “you’re just loud.”

Den slapped himself on the forehead–despite a deep desire to slap Delmas–then shielded his ears from what he anticipated would be a shriek.

But no shriek came.

Even as the cab breeched the smog, pouring hotter, brighter sunlight through its tall windows, all Delmas received from Odea was a quiet, smoldering glare–which may have been weakened by her thick glasses, tinted as they had become in the brighter light.

The remainder of their trip–all fifteen minutes of it–came and went with naught but the soft grind of metal on wire and the drone of wind moving faster than it ought around the oblong surface of the cab.

“Number in party,” a smooth, mechanically sweetened voice sang as all of the wind stopped dead and the cab’s door slid open with a satisfying woosh–do not deny me my wooshes, one only gets so many.

Odea hopped out of the skycab’s perfectly still cabin–held tight and sturdy on thick metal beams and hidden cables, the thing would not budge no matter how much one desired kicking it into the suns.

The synth that spoke with so smooth a voice waited just outside the door. Their artificially tanned skin glistened beneath a layer of perfumed dew–spritzed from above every skycab as they landed, to ensure no one fouled the air–but that was not what marked them synthetic. Nor was it the gold and white striped hair, or the matching uniform; an angular cut pantsuit of pristine white and gold, its starched pant-legs tucked into shin-high boots–the heels of which should have been registered as weapons.

No, the scream of their mechanical origins came from their eyes.

Their irises glared, shrinking, turning–and audibly whirring for the one with ears sharp enough to hear them–in glittering gold from the center of shining black eyeballs.

Their too-smooth voice sang again, without a hint of intonation, inflection, or warmth, “Number in party.”

“See, that, that’s what I don’t like about being up here,” Den said to no one as he kept behind Delmas and tried again to put his hands into his pockets.

Delmas slapped him away, smiling, “We’ve got synths below too.”

“Yeah, but ours are more...awake,” Den tried again. Pressing his chest against Delmas’ back–and a little around his side–he pulled the flaps of the big coat he wore out of the way and slipped his hands into the front pockets of Delmas’ jeans.

“Well, some of them maybe,” Delmas said, sighing at the hands wriggling around in his pockets. But, as they wouldn’t be moving anytime soon, he didn’t remove them.

“Three,” Odea said, shuffling from one leg to the other in front of the slim podium, her eyes twitching to every new face that flowed from neighboring skycabs.

“Purpose,” the synth said, not asked–those models did not have the ability to truly inquire, they could only relay and obey.

“Um,” She had something for that, but she was there for more than witch duties, I can’t say I’m here because of blood, shit, how do I phrase it?

“Someone forgot her title,” Den told Delmas’ side, adding louder, “you’re a blood-letter, remember...witch?”

“Two in one, not bad,” Delmas chuckled–more from the very warm hand tickling his thigh, but also the words, those were funny too, in a way.

“Right, right,” Odea closed her eyes, focusing on the why they were there and not the that. More skycabs were landing on either side of theirs–in a great big circle they could only see a fraction of–and visitors were filing out in numbers Odea was the opposite of comfortable with. “Uh, witching duties and...um, blood-le,” shooting a glare behind her she muttered, “damnit, Den,” before turning back to the ever-patient synth, “phlebotomist duties.”

Witch outranked phlebotomist and, though Odea had forgotten in the anxious bubble her breath had become, witches needed no reasons for witching.

“Coven and Designation please,” The synth intoned, and in their ever-so-slight change of tone, Den found himself curious.

“...that one male or female?” He asked Delmas.

“Neither,” He answered too quickly, voice hitching at the end.

Den giggled before asking, “How d’you know?”

Delmas pointed as he wiggled away from another gripping hand, “There’s a marker, on their temple, brands ‘em for customer service. And all customer service synths are andro.”

The last wriggle had pulled Den’s hands away and he pouted before snuggling in the offered coat, “Why do you know that and I don’t?”

“Ever work with synths,” it wasn’t a question–Delmas knew he hadn’t, well, he was pretty sure...and correct.

Den thought about it, came to the realization that he had only seen them in clubs, or cabs, or brothels and decided not to answer.

That earned him a grin and a tighter squeeze.

“Alright,” Odea said, rushing up a bit too close to them as all of the people began to jitter in her veins, “we’re good to go. So let’s go. Right now. Move.”

Though she was shorter than every other visitor crowding the station–barring a few gnomes and a wreck of faeries–Delmas and Den found it all too easy to follow Odea through the hot rush and murmur of the crowd. The bright auburn of her short-cropped hair, bouncing and snaking through all manner of brighter and duller colors, stood out like a beacon.

Neither were too certain how that worked, exactly, nor were they aware of how much focus it took Odea to do it.

Until they reached the gaping arches of the station–now, ‘gaping’ may not seem like the best word for a big door, but bear with me here...because it was a very big door–and Odea heaved her guts into a glittery gold trash bin.

Den froze before the arches, enduring the shove of bodies passing–which jostled him even as Delmas kept him safe in his arms.

He did not enjoy those arches, not in any capacity, but he especially disliked walking through them.

They yawned overhead, towering high above even the ogres that barreled past them. So high that one could only tell they were arches by the way they bent the light, and what light they bent; the yellows of Som’s bright shimmered on the golden metal of the arches–a gold that you may notice coats everything, there were few areas of Upper Dolor that did not glitter.

And those damnable arches brought his attention to the ceiling of the station, or lack thereof, as there were no ceilings. There were layers upon layers of wide bridges connecting the skycabs to the exits and a terrible endless chasm below. Every single bridge bore more bodies than he imagined them capable, and he didn’t care for that either.

Even on the lowest layer of Upper Dolor’s disc-like island structure, the station bore no flooring. Beneath the bridge Den stood on were metal beams, thick and webbed, holding the bridges and the outer walls of the station...but between those beams waited empty air and a haze of black smog far, far below.

And none of it sparkled like the dazzling lights and wonder that the slums did on the trip up. The view from that bridge was one of hollow terror, and the more he stared the further it seemed to stretch and the louder it seemed to whisper, jump.

He gripped Delmas’ coat tighter, whispering, “I hate this place,” but he managed to force his feet to move and they passed beneath the arches.

And Delmas groaned and dug out his sunglasses.

Upper Dolor always made him doubt his immunity to the suns; if not for the bright, then for the heat. But neither of those are what drew the muttered, “Shit,” from his lips.

That came from looking out into all that bright...and not seeing Odea.

#writeblr #snippet #novel #writing #urban fantasy #pale blood #i shared this before and deleted it for reasons #have it again #i will throw tiny moments of closeness into every dialogue tag and you will never stop me

1 note · View note