FICTION: riccin kayata, learning about helms

[xihe]

 

RICCIN KAYATA | 5 SWEEPS, 12 YEARS OLD
temasek, hanhai district [4855 words]

“This,” Ico whispers, leaning in so that his curls brush your cheek, close enough that you can feel the feedback from his psi pinging off your horns, “is the blessing of being yellow, my little buttercup, and don’t you ever forget it.”

He’s got the two of you floating far, far, far above the crowd: with your feet tucked in, you’re not near enough to ruffle any heads, though you do have to kick up and out of the way when some eight foot monstrosity with a rack almost as long goes skating underneath. And she’s not the only one! You’ve never seen this many highbloods in one place before, and you’ve never seen so many nearly full-grown. You’d always thought you were big. You’re a head taller than Nzinga, and all of the crechekids but Kindra, and only a handspan smaller than Ico.

But there’s horns long enough to touch, here, and Ico has to boost you up higher when you start to reach down.

It’s an easy adjustment for him to make! He’s not as strong as you, maybe: Ico’s all finesse and style, those silly little kicks that send him flying across the stage, the psi-knives that cut right through his combatant’s strings, or joints, or throats. If Nzinga was here, you don’t think he could manage all three of you, not at all. But she isn’t! It’s just you and him, and he keeps you both up like it’s no problem at all. When he straightens back up from his whisper, you can’t even feel the pinch of his psi on your skin, he holds you so careful.

Which is good, you think, because getting dropped right into the middle of Carnival would be really, really bad.

Technically, you’re not even supposed to be here.

You’re old enough to roam where you want, do as you will: it’s only the ickle five sweeps that have to worry about pangomom haunting their steps, and you’re very nearly six, close enough and old enough that you could spit. You don’t go as far as you used to, when it was you ‘n Myrrha 'n Li 'n Weeds, but that’s 'cause it doesn’t make no sense to, that’s all. The world’s big, and scary, and your lusus isn’t allowed out of the city. When you’re older, Cu keeps telling you, then they’ll let you take her anywhere you want, but for right now, she’s got a collar and a charm that won’t let her out past Temasek.

And Kindra can’t leave, and Raphae fusses, if Ico’s gone too long, and for a grub who grew up on a farm, Nzinga’s no fun: she whines and she fusses if she doesn’t have a roof over her head, and she wants all of her food cooked. It just doesn’t make sense to go too far, with all of that. You don’t let yourself go past Cascara, not ever, even when you want, and you don’t let yourself go to full Carnivals, neither, even though you want.

Usually. You’re just a half-paint! A proper Carnival full of adults is no place for you. That’s how you get culled. Would they get in trouble afterwards? Sure. But it’s not like that matters much to you, when you’re face-down in some cullpit!

But Ico had mentioned he was going on one for a date, as casual as anything, and, well -

- he’s just a half-paint, too, and he ain’t even serious about it. He gaffs off the hymnbooks like they’re fun, not real, and he sneers at every priest soon as their backs turned. And if he was going, then why shouldn’t you?

You’d been a little surprised when he’d actually agreed to it. But here you are now, with his arm slung around your shoulder, bobbing above the crowd to watch them work, and the girl he’s got next to him is busy making sure the lot of you don’t get seen. And here you are, fucking wasting it, 'cause you’re not watching the crowd at all.

You’re watching her.

You can’t help it! She’s all horns and fangs, with a set of hooks that curve down even farther than yours, but more important than that - you’ve just never seen a psychic without ports, that’s all, but the base of her neck is bare, bare, bare.

Ico’s whispering to her now, something too dim for you to hear. Carnival’s so loud! You’d thought that the half-paint liturgies that you’ve been going to were raucous enough, but the noise here’s so wicked you can feel it in your bones, echoing and echoing and echoing 'til there’s no room for nothin’ else. But she seems to hear him well enough, because she laughs, mouth wide enough to set off those fangs.

When you tug on his sleeve, he waves you off, tilts his head just enough for you to see his mouth. You can read lips!

And he’s gaffing you off, telling you to enjoy the show.

Maybe you should! The first time you’d seen Carnival, all those ages back, back when you were a wriggler fresh to the program, you’d been awestruck by your first Navigressor tent. There’d been purple draped from the top to the bottom, beads hanging like raindrops from the clouds, and the air was thick with a thousand things you’d never smelled before. You’d never seen that many people in one spot before, not at Lang-Kheh, not even when Liyiji had taken you out to watch the boat race, and the water had been crowded with the flags of a hundred million different boats.

It’d been loud. It’d been wicked. It’d been the best thing you’d ever experienced, from top to bottom, and it’s nothing at all compared to the sea of people churning below you. You can see everything from up here! That’s why Ico hauled the two of you up, and had his girl following. The whole event’s spread out like the most glorious fucking banquet, all ready for you to feast your eyes on. There’s singing. There’s dancing. There’s fuckers demonstrating paint techniques behind the high walls of tent stalls that you can see right over.

For fuck’s sake, there’s a FayGo fountain, and they’ve got heretics lined up to be doused in it. The trolls down there aren’t like the ones in the cullpit: if they’ve got voodoos on 'em, they’re weak, because they’re foaming and hissing, even though they’re scarcely even near it yet.

But you keep sneaking looks at Ico and his girl, instead, who’re back to whispering. She’s leaning in now, her hair falling like a curtain around the two of 'em, and you can’t even see their faces to take a guess at what they’re saying.

Not that you care.

“Ico,” you murmur, tugging hard on his sleeve, “why doesn’t she have any gear?”

It’s like watching a film! He rolls back his shoulder, then he sighs, deflating like some motherfucker is pulling every ounce of air out of his lungs, and he ain’t got none left to breathe. The look he gives you is mournful, sure, but there’s an edge to it, too, the sort that promises he’s gonna whine about this later.

Behind him, the girl laughs, a hand in front of her mouth.

“Darling!” Has there ever been anybody in the whole wide world who’s made an endearment sound so salty? “Honeyblossom,” he says, and for all that he’s mouthing the words, you just know there’s an edge to it: “- you can’t just ask that, you little feral.”

“Brotherrrr~, I just did,” you deadpan, but he’s already holding up a finger.

“So you did! But that doesn’t mean -” The girl leans in, places her head on his shoulder. It’s so affectionate! Nzinga’s almost never that affectionate with you. “- that doesn’t mean,” he says, with scarcely a falter, “that you should! Ask me later, honeybunches, how’s that, and then we’ll cover it out. For now -”

He places a hand on your face, thumb firmly on one side of your chin and fingers braced around it, and then he steers your gaze back to the festival, just in time for the heretics to reach the fountain. You can’t read what he’s saying after that, but the pat on your cheek says enough.

Not that you’re paying much attention.

You didn’t realise they were gonna get drowned.

---

He doesn’t explain it later: he drops you off at the academy and fucking bails instead, because Iconic Conetl is nothing but a liar and a goddamn traitor.

But that’s alright! That’s perfectly fine, 'cause you got others folks you can ask, and you never needed him none, anyway.

Sipara just blinks at you when you ask her. “Uh,” she says, eloquent as fuck, and then she squints, wrinkling her nose. “Why would she have ports, nerd?”

Sipara’s always enjoyed being a brat. She’ll answer your questions, though, if you phrase it right, and lay out the right bait. She’s never liked nothin’ more than hearing the sound of her own blather, and she likes sparks more'n even you do.

“'cause everyone’s got ports!” Stomping your foot’s too pupa-ish even for you. But you can roll back your shoulders like Ico, lift your chin, sneer down your nose, and the way she rankles in response is /great/, 'cause she can’t match it. What’s she gonna do? Get on a chair?

And from the way she twists her mouth, all difficult, she knows it.

“Nobody in Hanhai has 'em.” You don’t even know where she gets this tone sometimes, all prim and shit. It doesn’t suit her! It makes you want to pinch her 'til she’s hissing again, acting the way she ought.. but you’ve got a better way than that.

“Everyone in Hanhai’s half-feral and wretched,” you declare, and oh! There go her ears, straight up in the air, like you’ve brought down the most dour kinda offense. “They’re losers and wrastels. They don’t know their ass from their head, on accounta the fact they can’t read none, and they’re 'bout as smart as the dead outside -” You pause, contemplative, and wait. Soon as she opens up her mouth, you’re ready: “- nah, nah, girl,” you say, loud, watching the colour flood her cheeks, “they’re dumber, 'cause at least the dead ain’t there, tryin’ to grow shit in a goddamn desert – oof!”

Sipara’ll give you all the answers you want, if you lay out the right kinda bait.

Unfortunately, sometimes she takes it a little too well.

So your second try, after you get some ice for your poor fangs, is with Canvio.

Canvio’s always holed up in the library! You don’t get it. At least Nzinga has good hobbies. When she’s not at the gym, or at the ring, or at hymns, or trying to ruin your entire goddamn life, she’s.. well, you don’t really know what she does, other than that, but it’s gotta be interesting. She’s Nzinga. She’s never had a boring fucking night in her whole, entire life.

All Canvio does is read, read, read, and suck up to folks when she ain’t. And sure enough, when you poke your nose into the bookdome, there she is, sitting on the edge of a table, chattering up a storm at some neophyte still in his dress unis.

“I think it’s just amazing,” the boy says, leaning forward, his fins flaring as he picks up speed, “that we have this much variation in laws, honestly. I mean, consider! The culling distinctions are fairly different between provinces, of course, but that’s not laziness, that’s just - think of it like pieces in an engine. We have thousands and thousands of parts, and each one needs to work together as a whole, but by necessity, the crankshaft needs to function differently than the shocks. They work together to make the car move, but they aren’t the same, and it’d never work, if they were.”

“That’s - um, that’s a good point.” Canvio’s twisting her hair around her finger, her free hand drumming against the table as she tries to think. She’s finally grown into her ears the last sweep or so, and it’s about time. They’re still too heavy to sit up proper, but they scarcely go past her shoulders, now. “But -”

You don’t know the violet legislacerator. Indigo? Those are fins on his mug, sure enough, but his face ain’t strange in the way that the proctors are! There’s /dents/ in his skin, dimples, not just sleek fat, and he actually blinks as he talks, like his eyes don’t just stay wet on their own. And his teeth are flat enough that he can actually bite into his lip without shredding it. “But?” he prompts.

“But the proctors think it’s silly.”

He actually dimples at her, opens his mouth -

- and you clear your throat, leaning forward on the table with a thump of your hand against it.

“Girl,” you sing, showing your fangs, “sister, I just hate to interrupt this fine fucking discussion, but I got questions, and you’re the only one who can answer 'em. The only one in this whole building! The only one in this whole world. And it ain’t my intention to intrude - it ain’t my intention to fucking burst in, but, but -”

“- you’re going to do it anyway?” the boy offers.

“- but I’m gonna do it anyway,” you confirm, and Canvio turns to face you, her ears swinging with the motion. If she was anybody else, you’d think that was a frown ghosting around the corners of her mouth, a reprimand jostling for attention and just waiting to get out. But you’ve known her since her ears were hitting the ground. Ire isn’t a word in her dictionary.

She just blinks at you, slow and languid, and then smiles, her brows knit just so. “Iunno how I can help you, Riccin.” She’s always so quiet, quiet, quiet: your ears are still ringing from the noise from Carnival and Sipara’s clout across the head, and you gotta lean in just to catch her cant. “I’m sure I don’t know the sort of thing you.. um, that you might be interested in.”

“Nonsense! You know everything.” Flattery wins every soul over, doesn’t it? You’re pretty sure you heard that. The indigo makes a curious noise, and you look at him side-long. “Hasn’t she told you that, brother?”

“Liable. And no! She forgot to say,” he says, amused. “I mean, obviously, she’s pretty smart, but.. everything?”

“Oh.” She’s flushing. “Um. No, not everything -”

“Everything,” you confirm cheerily. She’s turning as red as a bottle of the proctor’s hemming. “Girl’s got a mind like a steeltrap. Can’t forget anything, not ever, not once she hears it! She’s better than a fucking computer.”

The indigo - nah, Liable - looks from you to her. You can see the moment the thought clicks in his pan, that this is who he’s been talking to, and maybe Canvio does too, because she squares her shoulders, and even her snub of a nose scrunches up like she just smelled something sour.  "Riccin,“ she says, plainative, and this is as close to a reprimand as she’s ever gotten with you. "What do you want?”

And maybe it’s 'cause she’s so plainative that you just spit it out. “How come some folks get ports?” you demand. “'cause I saw a girl without 'em in town, and she was still using her psi, and everything.”

“.. not every psionic needs ports.” She’s back to twirling her hair around her hand, watching you through her lashes. Canvio’s only a little shorter than you, but she acts like she’s so much smaller. “Was she part of the program?”

You think of Ico, and the way he doted on her. He doesn’t like the rest of the program, aside from you and Sipara. Sometimes you think he doesn’t even like Iphige, for all the attention he pays her, and she’s his fucking moirail.

“Nah,” you say.

“Then that’s why.” She nods, brisk, and then slips into that tone you’re used to hearing from her testing: the slight drone that sets the base of your horns to itching as her powers kick in. “Amplification ports were developed in the sixteenth cohort cycle of our empress’s reign,” she recites, “as a tool to aid in the development of her Dreaded Condescensions’ newly fledged fleet. The first institution to use them formally was the Imperial Dreadnought Core: soon afterwards, they became standard in the Imperial Education Program, before spreading throughout the remainder of the empire’s government.”

She blinks. Switches tracks. “Tonight,” she says, eyes shining faintly with gold, “they are common amongst the upper cohorts, but high prices and the lack of availability makes them rare in the leading cycle. Amplification ports are primarily found in members of early Ascension programs, such as the IEP, IPC, PSC, RFP and MANTRA, and the installation of flight-accessible ports in pre-Ascension citizens is illegal under statute 78.C.23-A, without the prior filing of permission and a signed referral stating intent of use by a fleet official of at least ranking 8-A-C.”

Liable’s staring, when you glance his way.

“And that’s.. maybe why she doesn’t have them. I think?” It’s queer, the way that Canvio swaps back to reality. Her psionics go out, and just like that, so’s her confidence. “I think,” she adds again, worried. “I.. it’s hard to know for sure, unless I saw her. Did you think she needed them? Because, ah, I don’t think - well, not everyone does.”

“Maybe they don’t need 'em, but -” Even Sipara has ports, you want to argue. You’ve helped her strip off her arm before! It’s all hamburger meat and jagged lines where she cut straight through it, badly sealed as if she’d used crazy glue to fix it, but there’s a port there, buried into the scars and flesh of her wrist. “- shouldn’t they have them?” you argue, and you’re gonna say more, but Canvio’s looking at you.

It’s the same way lots of folks have started looking at you, lately, and the words die on your tongue.

“Why.. um.” She licks her lips, turns away so that she can watch you from the corner of her eye. “I don’t think -”

“I don’t see why they would,” Liable says, rallying. He’s leaning forward on the table now, fins drooping even as he peers at you. “If you can use your abilities without them, why would you want tech put in you? And if you’re not going to do something with your psionics -”

“Brother, why the fuck wouldn’t you?” Something on his face shifts, but it’s only when Canvio flinches that you realise your voice’s picked up. But you can’t help it. This conversation’s making you antsy in a way you can’t figure out, except that they’re not fucking getting it. “We have 'em for a reason,” you snap. “If you ain’t using 'em, the fuck are you but a joke without a punchline? What’s the point of it? Might as well crack open your pan and scrape it clean, if you’re rebuffing what the fuck you’re made for -”

And he’s looking at you strange now, too, like you’re saying something worth staring over.

You swallow the rest of your lecture, turn on your heel and fucking leave.

---

Your third, and final, attempt is with Kindra.

Myrrha won’t understand! Myrrha gets squeamish about her own port; you caught her with jade under her nails the entire first sweep she had it, and all she has is the sort they give wrigglers, scarcely bigger than your thumb. Liyiji doesn’t care, and wouldn’t see it as relevant to the either of you. Sometimes you think he doesn’t even remember you’re not blue, the way he acts!

Weeds.. well, you’re not sure what he’d care, either, but that thought’s stranger, and it sort of stings.

But Kindra’s more kin than any of the rest of them. Kindra’s your castemate, and your friend, and the only fucker with as much gear in him as you’ve got. He’s let you sprawl out in his apartment for the nights after your surgeries, when every piece of flesh in your body is griping about the new additions, and you’ve seen him when his neck’s still swollen and yellow, and he won’t let almost nobody come near. Everything you’ve been through, he’s done, too. Every proctor exam you’ve taken, every night you’ve spent hooked up in some chair, running test after test to see how shit’s playing out - well, some of that, he’s even done more'n you.

If anyone’s gonna get it, he will.

And lucky for you, he’s in his block when you come pounding on the door, hollering loud enough that some idiot down the row pokes their head out. “Kindra! Kindra!”

“If you don’t stop knocking,” he says, flat and dull through the wood, “I’m not opening it.”

There’s one problem with Kindra, and that’s that you can’t just slip on past him. You gotta orchestrate your moves! He’s like Canvio, but worse in every way: all you ever gotta worry about 'round her is the fact she’ll remember every little piece of everything you ever do, and the proctors like to go rifling through her pan. So you can’t ever do anything they wouldn’t like in front of her, or they’ll hear about it. It’s not too bad, though. It means she’s always happy to see you, on account of the fact you’re one of the only fuckers who doesn’t care.

It isn’t like you ever do shit the proctors care about, anyway.

But Kindra remembers everything he ever touches, not just sees, and he remembers it forever and ever: a list of all your sins, all your actions, every thought that you might ever have fucking had. It’s a wretched kind of thought! Not for you, necessarily, 'cause what do you have to hide? He’d probably do better if he had your stuff jangling in his night long to keep 'em company, and keep his spirits up. He’s grumpy enough as is. And it’s not like you’d mind, considering it’s /him/.

But every time you try to imagine knowing every cringing, slinking thought in Canvio’s head - having her permanently bouncing around - it makes your skin crawl.

So you sidle past him, instead, careful to keep your hands and arms in, and when you get in his hive, you flounce immediately over to his couch. There’s a spot that you’ve decided is yours, though you stopped short of carving your name into it. When you fling yourself onto the arm of it, knees braced, shoulders and head sprawled across the back - you can shift just right to watch Kindra on the other side of it, dramatic as fuck, and no risk of tipping right onto him.

Nah, if he kicks out, you’ll just tip off the back. As he’s fucking proven, a couple of times.

But he doesn’t kick at you this time. He just closes and locks his door, then settles onto the other end of the couch, watching you. “Well? What’s got you in a knot this time?” he says, and it’s so fucking strange, seeing him without the mask. Sometimes you forget he’s got a mouth under there! A mouth, and a face, and a whole slew of expressions that you never, ever get to see.

Except right now, while he frowns.

“Well?” he demands, and there’s a hundred things you could say, if you could figure out how. Nobody fucking gets it. Nobody gets it, and you don’t understand why, 'cause it’s clear as the stars in the sky. She didn’t have a port, and she should’ve. What’s the point of psi without it? Shepherd’s always saying that a psionic without one’s useless as a dog without a leash, and it’s true! Your job is to serve the Empire. It always has been, ever since you hatched out and started sparking.

How’re folks supposed to do that, bare-necked?

How can anyone else stand the thought there’s folks out there, not doing their goddamn duties?

Maybe, if you had enough time, you could figure out how to say something like that. Maybe, if Kindra wasn’t watching you, and waiting, and you weren’t so riled.

What comes out, instead, is: “- d'you think we need ports?”

He squints at you.

His ears aren’t big like yours! They’re like Li’s, smaller than Sipara’s, but just big enough to read. So when they twitch back, you take note. “They kind of suck,” he says, flat, but.. he doesn’t look at you like Canvio or Liable or Sipara all have started. His mouth just twitches to the side, and he slumps a little against the cushions, eyebrows rising up like they’re an afterthought. “But.”

“They’re necessary! Why’re you thinking about 'em? You’re going to give yourself ulcers.”

“I don’t have - whatevers!” He’s hanging around the legislacerators too much, you think, if he’s using that sort of terminology. That doesn’t even sound like a word, never mind a real one.

“Yeah, that’s why you’re gonna give yourself 'em,” he sniffs. “Try listening. Why? Did one of your weirdos say we didn’t?”

“One of the legis did.” His contempt is as familiar as the back of Shepherd’s hand. It’s sort of soothing. Everyone else can be strange, but Kindra’s always been on your level: he gets you, in a way that nobody else fucking does. And as far as you’re concerned, you think you do, too.

You’ve never tried to touch his face, after all, even though you could. Or his hand, or anything else! There’s plenty of trolls who see a fucker wrapped up like a mummy, and take that as a lark to try and push, but you’ve never been one of them. “The legi’s are dumb,” he declares, prompt. “Don’t listen to them. What do they know, other than laws? Nothing.”

.. even if right now, you want to. The couch is fine to drape on, but you don’t want to fucking drape on something. You want your lusus, or you want Ico petting your hair, or - something that’s more comforting than dead fabric under you, because every thought in your pan’s a fucking mess right now.

But Kindra can’t touch you, his lusus is too pointy to hold, and visiting hours for yours are over for the day. So you curl in tighter against the couch instead, with a whuff loud enough that you’re sure they can hear it out in the hallway. “I guess.”

“Well, I know.” He’s so certain, sometimes! There’s no hesitation as he leans back into the couch, reaches for the remote. “Do you want to watch a movie?” he offers. “One of your stupid romcoms. Get your pan off of it. There’s a new one out –”

“Would you still be friends with me, brother, if I didn’t have wetware?”

He blinks at you.

“.. of course I would.” So much for that confidence! You could’ve dropped a pin in that silence. You could’ve started a war, had a hand-fasting, died and been passed over by three different descendents by the time he musters up the answer. But at least it’s an answer, for all the fact that he is giving you a look now, one of the ones that means you’re being awful dumb. Sure enough: “ - you’re stuck with me now. /But/ that’s a really dumb question.”

“You’ve got a really dumb face,” you shoot back. Is that the answer you wanted? You’re not sure! You’re.. it’s wrong, for folks not to have ports. It’s wrong, and it’s awful, and it makes your neck itch, makes you want to scratch until your hands are painted, like Myrrha used to do. It means they’re wretched, and stupid, and useless - like pupas.

Like you used to be, before you came and joined the program.

But you shouldn’t think about this anymore right now! You want to, in a twisting kind of way: you want to dig into it 'til you’ve got it split open, 'til you understand every inch and corner of it, 'til there’s naught you don’t know, and the words come as easy as song. Would you be friends, if Kindra didn’t have a port?

That’s a good question.

He clears his throat. When you look at him, he waves the remote, impatient, and it’s a wonder, how much you can pick up from a sound. Exasperation, irritation, worry: everything he does is always like a ballad wrapped in a ditty, if you’re just payin’ enough attention.

So you huff: “- start the movie, brother.”

(.. you wouldn’t be, you don’t think, but you can’t imagine not being friends with Kindra, not ever. So you’d just have to get him one, that’s all - and oh, that thought smooths your hackles some. Maybe that’s what Ico’s doing, too.)

(Maybe it’s alright, if folks don’t have ports. Maybe it’s alright, even, if they think they don’t need 'em - 'cause maybe, just maybe, that’s what fuckers like you are here for, to tell them and show them that they’re fucking wrong.)