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FICTION: sipara nzinga, disasterclade - gifts for id
SIPARA NZINGA | 6 sweeps / 13 years old
OA: oKAY, BULGEFACE, THAT’S ENOUGH WITH THE SHIT-TALK. WE GOTTA FOCUs.
OA: tHE HELL ARE WE GETTING ICO FOR HIS HATCHDAy?
AA: lololololol no stfu
AA: y wld i shrne
AA: so i can do the wrnk and u can take crndt
AA: l m a o n
AA: g fck yrnslf
OA: oKAY, ONe:
OA: i WASN’T ASKING YOU TO SHARE, YOU NUBBY-HORNED LITTLE MOGGy.
OA: tWO: MORE LIKE I DO THE WORK AND YOU TAKE THE CREDIT. AIN’T NO MIRTH TO BE FOUND IN GIVING A FUCKER A DEAD BIRD. THAT’S A REAL shit GIFt.
AA: stfu he liked it
OA: hE SAID YOU WERE A FERAL MEOWBEAST AND HE WAS GOING TO ABANDON YOU IN A GUTTER, SO YOU COULD JOIN YOUR COHORt.
AA: y y y
AA: but ddnt so he liked it
OA: >:o|
OA: lIKE I WAS ALL UP AND SAYING, I AM NOT asking ABOUT BUYING A GIFT, I AM stating THAT WE ARE BUYING A GIFT FOR HIM TOGETHER. ON ACCOUNT OF THE FACT WE’RE ALL QUADS AND THAT’S WHAT WE’RE SUPPOSED TO Do.
OA: yOU CAN BUY HIM SOME JUNK YOURSELF, IF YOU WANT TO. OR GO KILL ANOTHER BIRD. I DON’T CARE WHAT SWILL YOU CALL YOURSELF WRAPPING IN A BOW AND PASSING OFF AS A gift.
OA: eVEN THOUGh.
OA: iT’S GONNA LOOK ALL KINDS OF AWFUL SITTING NEXT TO MINe.
OA: jUST SAYIn’. :o)
AA: lol
AA: gtfo
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OA: mESSIAHS, GIRL, DON’T BE SUCH A CHUCKLEHEAd.
OA: cOME ON. ME AND ICO BOUGHT YOU A GIFT ON YOUR HATCHDAy.
OA: a REAL GODDAMN GIFT, NONE OF THIS DEAD ANIMAL SHIt.
OA: iT’S FAIR TURN ABOUT THAT WE GET OFF OUR ASSES AND DO HIM SOMETHING PROPER IN RETURn.
OA: aND WE GOTTA DO IT TOGETHER, DUMBASS, OR HE WON’T THINK WE CARe.
AA: so
OA: sO USE THAT LEAKY BUCKET YOU CALL A PAN, GIRL. IF WE DON’T CARE, WHY BE IN A QUAD? WHY TALK TO US AT ALL? HE’S PALLING IT UP WITH FISH AND PRIESTS, NZINGA. HE ISN’T EXACTLY NIPPING AT THE BIT TO KEEP UP WITH DRUDGES LIKE Us.
OA: tHIS QUAD AIN’T JUST ‘CAUSE HE LIKES OUR FACE. HE’S DOING US A MOTHERFUCKING FAVOr.
OA: wE GOTTA GET HIM SOMETHING NICE, OR ELSE HE MIGHT RECONSIDER It.
OA: dUh.
Every time you turn around, Riccin keeps getting taller. It’s not fair.
Course, this time, it’s ‘cause she’s wearing heels.
“Dude, take those off,” you hiss, ears pinning flat. “You look stupid! He’s gonna laugh at us! And what about the egg?” The two of you spent all day yesterday at a hatchery, trying to pick the best egg for him to get. ID likes birds! He practically collects ‘em, dead or alive, and some fancy broodhen that’ll grow up to make even more birds seems like the sorta thing he’d like. The one you got’s pink, just like his psionics, and it’s strapped to Riccin’s back in a pouch to keep it safe and out of the way.
Or it’d keep it safe, if she weren’t in fucking heels. Riccin can’t walk in heels! She’s practically trailing psi with each wobbly step, her eyes brighter than they ever really ought to be, and even if they weren’t, though, you’d still know she was cheating to stay upright. She’s been shooting up faster than she can get used to: the past perigee, she put on four whole inches, and she’s barely been able to run without misjudging it in her trainers.
When she sees you looking, she sticks out her tongue. It’s distracted! After only a split second, she’s back to staring at the ground. “Fuck off!”
You’re getting a crick in your neck looking up. This has to be an extra five, six inches to a troll that doesn’t need any, so now that you’ve asked nicely, you do the only thing you can do:
You kick her right in the ankle, egg be damned.
All of her psionics are focused on keeping the shoes steady on the ground. She’s not expecting an attack higher up! Her heel twists in the shoe, and it’s amazing how quick the psionics sizzle out, electric blue dissipating so fast it leaves dark streaks in your eyes. She doesn’t fall. It’s a shame! But her eyes go narrow and her ears pin back and she growls at you, deep and throaty like a congested grub.
“I am going to pull off those wretched nubs you call horns and use ‘em as a mortar.”
“Dude, you can’t even catch me,” you snipe, and take a step back.
She takes the challenge, just like you knew she would! She takes a step forward. With her face all done up in the half-paint she’s taken to wearing, she looks almost like an acolyte. Almost like she should be intimidating.
She isn’t, though, 'cause she’s Riccin: big-horned and clumsy and with spots on her face that she thinks paint’ll cover up. What’s the worse she can do? Hit you? There’s nothing impressive about that!
So you laugh at her instead, and her next step is too wide. Her foot slips in the shoe. She goes toppling head-first towards the ground. Her arms fling out. Her growls turned screechy with rage, and it’s great: she’s floundering, trying to twist as not to land wrong, but she’s too caught up to remember she can catch herself with her psionics.
When you step forward, she lands in your arms with a plompf, heavy enough that you stagger. Not from the weight! Just from the size of her. She’s big, but she only weighs about the same as ID, 'cause everyone you know’s just a sack of bones.
“Shit, gi~irl,” you sing, “if you wanted me to hold you, you could’ve, like, just asked.”
Her face is the most godawful shade of yellow. She snarls at you, trying to wriggle half-heartedly free. The elbow to your gut barely hurts at all, and you wrap your arms around her, burrowing your face in her headfluff. “I’m going to bite off your face,” Riccin threatens, but if she wanted loose, it’d be easy as shoving you her with psionics.
All she does instead is flail until you finally lose your balance. You topple, shrieking, but the gravel that digs into your skin when you hit the ground’s nothing compared to the thump when she lands on top of you.
There’s pointy limbs digging into your spleen. You whine, ears going back, but you’re opening your mouth to complain when something sticky starts leaking on your knees.
“Riccin, you idiot! The egg!”
ID squints at the two of you.
“You got me.. a decorative egg-shell,” he says, carefully, like the time he tried to copy your southern common: like the words don’t quite fit proper in his mouth, but he’s too nice to just spit them out. “Well, isn’t hat just the sweetest thing anyone’s ever fetched me.”
“I like the spots. Almost my shade of yellow, even! And the glow. Did you stick a light-grub in here?” he says, dubious, and shakes it, pressing his ear against it to hear. “Oh! No! It’s plastic. Isn’t that just quaint?”
“It’s for luck, lah!” Riccin says, ears pricked up and forward. Then she seems to realise she’s being excitable, and she jerks her chin up, peering down her nose instead. “Which is good,” she adds. “For a person like you. For your performances, yeah?”
“Are you saying I’m bad at my job, my little lemonhead?” He laughs, raising his eyebrows, and shoves the egg under one arm so he can press a hand to his cheek: “- because that’s just plum mean to insinuate on a fellow’s very own wiggling day!”
Riccin doesn’t really beam anymore. All she ever does is her sideways grin, where the entertainment’s creepin’ up and she doesn’t really want to show it. “I ain’t saying you’re bad,” she says, “but brother, you could use some luck. I mean, just sayin’, all things considerin’ –”
“You don’t need luck! You’re great, Riccin’s just bein’ a bulgemunch. ‘cause, like, we got you a hen,” you chirp, “but we broke it and then Jahhiz told us we’re not allowed near it again, and he took it, so we got you a lucky egg, instead, ‘cause, like, did you know it cost like, twenty caegars? Each? That’s a lot! And I was like, no, fuck that, I’m not gonna drop another twenty on Ico, that’s dumb, let’s get the fake egg, that’s, like, ten –”
“Stop talking!” Riccin shrieks, and shoves you. With a squall of outrage, you shove her back, and a moment later, the both of you are on the ground, hissing like meowbeasts.