Fabricant451

What shows/movies are you watching?

After three episodes of The Acolyte I think it's pretty okay.

BHHS: Limitless

CONTENT WARNING: Use of a

perjorative

r-slur

All My Friends

The morning of October 18th

Tristan Rogers hated Homecoming week.

It wasn’t the school pride angle that she hated - though having pride in one’s school was something she also didn't quite get considering it wasn’t the school that was worth celebrating but the teammates and friends made; while others went all out on dressing up (there was no way some of these people actually wore those pajamas to bed especially not all the makeup), Tristan was content to simply slap a pin onto her backpack and call it a day. What difference did it make if she showed up on cowboy day in normal clothes? Cowboys ate a lot of beans, farted, and hated Mexicans and Native Americans. Why were they so glorified just because some guys looked moderately attractive in denim and an open shirt? Tristan suffered her hatred of Homecoming week in silence, but the silence grew louder and louder every year and while it wasn’t likely to erupt like a volcano, she was beyond tired and fed up with the whole affair.

Tristan Rogers hated Homecoming week because it continued the bullshit preferential treatment to men’s sports over women’s. Why was the Homecoming game relegated to a single football game even though the girl’s volleyball season overlapped with football season? Volleyball started in August and goes through December but come that one week in October the only sport that mattered was football. At the pep rally, all hype and focus was given solely to the boys who had a future of concussion protocols ahead of them while other sports got a passing mention and pity applause. Why? Did anyone who cheered for the football team come out to support volleyball? Did anyone who cheered for the football team even know the record of the volleyball team or know that for the past three years the BHHS girl’s volleyball team won state? Of course not. How could they?

People just didn’t care about women’s sports.

The anger and annoyance with Homecoming week and all its excesses and expectations had one upside and that was that it allowed Tristan to focus her aggression in an outlet that was much, much healthier than bottling it up and stewing in unserious misery. To that end, the morning of the pep rally had a fist colliding with a punching bag in the home gym of the Rogers household. It was often difficult to get time with the bag, if her brother wasn’t using it then her father was but Tristan was up early, as she often was, and delivered punch after punch after blow after blow before the sun had even risen. It was eating into her yoga time, but if she hadn’t let it out now then she’d never be able to center, calm, and have the intended yoga experience. Punching the bag was a therapy she didn’t have to pay for, where she could say the tears in her eyes were just sweat and that it wasn’t pain she was feeling but rather motivation.

In truth, she hated that it came to this, having to wake up early to deal with something that tomorrow would no longer matter, but the more she worked the bag the more her thoughts cleared in time with the almost rhythmic punches. It wasn’t just about Homecoming. It was about why she’d never be taken as seriously as an athlete unless she was somehow the second coming of Venus or Serena. It was why people knew who Shohei Otani and Luka Doncic were but assumed Kim Yeon-koung was a K-Pop idol or something. It was why, whether he knew it or not, her brother would have a much easier path ahead of him despite Tristan putting in twice the effort. It was easy for their dad to tell them to ‘Be the best’ when he didn’t know what that meant for someone like Tristan. For a woman like Tristan.

By the time Tristan stopped hitting the bag and dropped to a heap on the floor, the tears wouldn’t pass as sweat.

When her eyes were clear and the anger pushed back down to the back of her mind, Tristan leaned her head against the heavy bag and wished that Chopper was allowed in the room. With all the equipment and weights, the home gym was the only room in the house that Chopper wasn’t allowed inside, but the only thing Tristan wanted to do after a workout was collapse into a pile with Chopper and watch cartoons with a bowl of cereal, an activity her parents said she’d grow out of twelve years ago but one she still did almost every Saturday. Her brothers might have had each other, boys bonded with boys after all, but Tristan had Chopper and honestly that was a much better deal. She could hear him trotting down the hall, aroused by the sounds of movement on the floorboards upstairs, a reminder to Tristan that her alone time was over and she rose to her feet to put on her face for the day as she made her way to the kitchen for a cup of yogurt.

In the kitchen, pinned to the refrigerator, was a drawing that could’ve been a cross between a portrait and a caricature, of a long haired girl in an armored uniform - not a full suit of armor, but a volleyball uniform that had armored shoulder pauldrons and instead of socks there were sabtons and sollerets and in her left hand, arced above her head as if she was about to spike a ball over the net, was a sword whose pommel was a volleyball. When Tristan pinned the picture on the fridge, her family assumed she got it done at the pier or at some carnival because there was no way she was that artistically talented. Tristan hadn’t told them where she got it, but as she stood in the kitchen, plastic spoon in her mouth as slightly bruised fingers tried to find the right grip to open the yogurt, her eyes were drawn, as they always were, to the picture, and her mind washed the annoyances of Homecoming week away in favor of a memory that made her smile.

Flashback: Senior Year, Earlier in the School Year

The second week of school was about the time students began falling back into the rhythms or, in the case of freshmen, only barely started remembering the best route to hit your locker in between classes without being late. Nothing exciting ever tended to happen the second week of school other than a few particularly cruel teachers deciding that was the best time for a quick, pop or otherwise, which only would cement them as no one’s favorite teacher. For students with a keen eye, the second week of school was a week too late to be first discovering the girl with plastic rings on her left hand.

Two freshmen boys, one who desperately needed a comb for the dead animal that crawled on top of his head and made a home out of it and the other who would probably lose the acne if he stopped downing cans of soda before, during, and after lunch, first noticed the girl with plastic rings on her left hand after school one day, two weeks into the school year. The pair of them took the wrong exit on the way out of school and wound up on the quad when they wanted to go to the school bus pick up lot. The unkempt mop head was the first one who saw the girl; his partner in crime was too busy playing a mobile game he was skilled at thanks to two hundred dollars from a birthday card. A quick jab in the elbow got his attention, though, and for minutes the two of them were transfixed.

The girl with plastic rings on her left hand had other identifiable features. her vibrant hair that was somewhere between a dull red and a bright brown that somehow brought to mind a chocolate colored orange, the splotches of paint on her red shirt, and the stickers on her face that caught the sun like a lens flare on every twirl. The girl, naturally, was spinning, arms angled downward at her side, mouth open in a smile that no one ever had two weeks into any school year, and only stopped so she could reverse direction in the twirl. If she had a reason for doing so, it resided solely in her head. The two boys watching couldn’t help but to laugh and snicker as a wicked plan was giggled between the two of them.

They came back the second day to find the girl wasn’t spinning but she was sitting on the grass, minding her own business, paint splotch still on her shirt though both shirt and splotch were different colors. Next to her were students engaged in a conversation and the paint-splotched girl seemed to be focusing on the conversation and nodding along with points as if she was trying to chime in but never spotted the right opportunity to do so. The third day, the boys returned to their observation but she wasn’t there, the fourth day they got closer than before, sitting next to her but far enough away to where it was clear to most that she wasn’t sitting with them. On the fifth day, they made their move.

Their conversation was a little louder than it should’ve been for two people in a place with little in the way of noise pollution but that had been the point. It only took a few minutes of them talking about science fiction in the form of a video game for the nodding girl to nod and a few more minutes beyond that for her to chime in. “Do you like space? I think space is great. It’s great. Space is great. My favorite planet is Saturn but my favorite galaxy is Bode’s Galaxy - it has a supermassive black hole..” She kept talking even when the acne boy interrupted and told her they weren’t talking about real life space. The girl just blinked until the same boy took a sip from his soda can. “Do you drink a lot of that? Is that why you have so much acne?”

That had apparently been the wrong thing to say, as what followed next was the bad hair boy raising his voice and standing up, his shadow casting large over the girl who only wanted to talk about space. Both boys started probing the girl with questions, though their tone of voice made it clear they were not looking for answers. Too many questions, too loud, all she could do was shake her head, mouth slightly open; she did something wrong but didn’t know what. But even if she did do something wrong, nothing she did warranted the question from the hair boy and the follow up from acne.

“What are you, like, retarded?”
“Yeah, you must be retarded.”
“I didn’t know they let retards go to this school.”
“Shouldn’t you be on the short bus, retard?”

The pejorative continued like the worst kind of echo chamber in her head, mixed with the mocking, piercing foul laughter from the gleeful boys who had waited a full school week just to belittle and demean someone. But with a loud, dull THLAP the voices of the boys were silenced as a white spherical ball bounced off one of their heads, spilling his cola onto the grass before he joined the sugar water in becoming one with the soil.

“I think you freshies are lost.” Tristan Rogers, still dressed in her practice shorts and black and red uniform shirt, placed her gym bag on the ground as the volleyball she spiked at the little assholes rolled back towards her. She rested a foot under the ball, ready to kick it up into her hand to spike at the boy who wasn’t clambering to his feet. A second THLAP as BHHS’ star setter served the volleyball to the other boy before he could even think of a proper comeback. Both boys were on the grass and desperately wishing they were anywhere else. “Get lost, or I’ll give you something that won’t go away until you graduate.” The boys didn’t have to be told twice as they scampered off, holding a palm to their face as they did.

“Are you alright?” Tristan looked at the girl, who looked back at Tristan.

“I’m Abby.” Abby answered the question. “Actually, I’m Ashley but I like Abby. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Abby, they were making fun of you.” Tristan had never known Abby to be a nickname for Ashley but it didn’t much matter to her what someone wanted to call themselves. Abby was shaking her head to Tristan’s words while she got to her feet and brushed grass from her knees.

“No they weren’t. They were calling me something I’m not. That’s not making fun. But they weren’t very nice so thank you. What’s your name?”

“Tristan.”

“That’s a cool name. It sounds like a knight or something. Like Tristan and Isolde. Have you seen that? It’s not good, I didn’t like it much. Do you want to be friends? Sorry. Thank you. Bye.” And just as quickly as it had started, the conversation ended and Abby spun on her heels and left a still processing Tristan wondering what the hell happened and who the hell Isolde was.

That wasn’t the last time Tristan encountered Abby. The Monday after their first encounter, Abby wasn’t at the quad after school like she normally was, though she did wander. When the bell rang, Abby didn’t go the familiar path to the art club or the equally as familiar path outside, she joined the likes of the freshmen and took to the halls, every step she took seemed as if she was skipping down them, the hem of her skirt sashaying as she glided along. Where she was going she only had the vaguest of ideas, but her instinct told her the gym was the place to be, which was mildly humorous considering during school hours the gym was her least favorite building in school.

In her head, she was whistling, it helped her not overhear the overlapping conversations and sounds of excitement at the end of a school day; the noise internally was loud enough to mute the external discussions of homework, work, in-jokes she’d never be part of, and heavily embellished tales of romance. In her sophomore year, Abby made the easy mistake of listening in on a passing group of upperclassmen talking about how one of them had spent the weekend having sex with Monica Lisewski. “Were you at the art camp workshop too? I don’t remember seeing you there, but Monica Lisewski was there, she had a really nice mosaic piece that took her the whole weekend. I don’t know when she would have had the time to have sex with you, but maybe it was after dark.” It was only after the guy who made the boastful brag stomped off to the sounds of his friends laughing at him that Abby realized she said something wrong. Since then she tried not to interject into conversations she wasn’t part of. It was, like many things, easier said than done.

Tuning out the world around her was helpful. It made things easier for Abby, who was so often accused of living in her own little world. She did, but her world wasn’t one she would wish others could experience but it was a world she was so excited to share with someone, anyone, who so much as poked their head in for a visit. That was why she was on her little journey towards the gym.

The gym, as it so often was, was a zone of disappointment. It was unoccupied other than the gym teachers hanging out by their offices, and if Abby didn’t want to go to the gym for class, she definitely didn’t want to talk to the gym teachers after school. The smile she had on every step didn’t fade, it didn’t even dim all that much, but she was at a loss. All she had was a name and a vague idea of what the owner of that name did, but other than that the circles and company they kept were like repelling sides of a magnet. So once again, Abby found her way outside, though not to the quad - to the parking lot.

Abby didn’t have a car which gave her little to no reason for being in the parking lot, but the exit closest to the gym was closer to the lot than the quad. If given the choice of walking back through the halls to go to the quad exit or take the outside route through the lot, Abby would pick the outside path every time. Inside was stifling, cold, narrow, with bodies packed through the halls like sardines and people constantly touching her shoulder as they sped past without so much as a word of apology. But outside? Outside was warm and beautiful and vast. Outside there were fluffy clouds and fuzzy, buzzy bumblebees, vibrant colors ripe for the palate. Outside was where Flapjack, her pet frog, came from and where he liked to hang out. Many times, Flapjack would rest on Abby’s shoulder or at her side while she was lounging in her back garden - and then he would hop into the pond made for him until he was ready to go back inside.

There was, however, something different about being outside in the parking lot in comparison to the quad; not just the faint smell of rubber and gas or the roar of engines purring to life. Through the din of automobiles there was something different..something that sounded like music and like a rat being led by the piper, Abby followed towards it. As she wandered through the metallic maze of paintjobs and daddy’s bank accounts, the sound got louder, clearer, and words were joining in the festivities. She closed her eyes and paused her steps a moment, her head slowly trailing from left to right as the sound grew louder the more she focused on it. And through the clearing, sitting in the back of a red car, was the source.

A girl with midnight black hair, a sleeveless white crop top that had a toothy-smiling cow with x’s in its eyes, and a pleated black skirt was strumming to an audio track playing from a small device next to her. “Destination unknown…Ruby Ruby Ruby Ruby Soho…” She sang along, her eyes closed, body still except for the effortless way her fingers hit the strings, the words from her lips, and the gentle sway of her combat boot clad feet. Abby stood transfixed, not on the person, but the sounds they were making. When the song ended, Abby clapped. Genuinely. Enthusiastically. And the bass player opened her eyes. Audiences were not always a common thing at the end of the day, but the presence of one warranted the bassist acknowledging Abby with a nod.

“Are you Ruby Soho? That’s a cool name, my name is Ashley Beswick but I go by Abby.”

The bass player smiled, and laughed a light laugh, the kind of laugh someone gave when they were trying to be polite but not rude, and then she shook her head while adjusting the tuning heads. “No, Ruby Soho is the name of the song. I didn’t write it either. I’m Eun-ji Walters, but I go by Ellie. Names are weird sometimes, aren’t they.” The way Ellie spoke was strangely calming. Her voice felt like the wind, a gentle breeze that soothed the soul and refreshed the body on a warm day. If singing didn’t work out for her, she could’ve made a killing reading audio books. Another laugh escaped from Ellie’s lips. “I’m not a singer, but thank you, I think.” Abby had said the audiobook part out loud without even realizing it, but Ellie didn’t seem bothered or upset by it. Not like others.

“Can you play another song?”

“Sure can, Abby.”

Ellie Walters, since the second half of sophomore year, had spent at least an hour after school sitting in the trunk of her car playing bass to an audience of passers-by and brief stoppers. It was as consistent a presence as gravity. After her little performances she would pack up and drive to EZ Park Convenience and buy one blue slushie; if they didn’t have blue for whatever reason she would click the back of her teeth with her tongue and debate if getting a purple one was acceptable or if she could mix two together to make blue. The actual flavors associated with the colors didn’t matter, it could’ve been blue raspberry, blueberry, or something called blue thunder, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was blue and blue was the best color of a slushie. She accepted no other substitutes. Life for Ellie Walters was pretty routine like that; the lack of a blue slushie was the closest life came to interrupting her routine.

Until Abby began listening to Ellie’s playing.

The first day, Abby left after hearing the second song (Spiderwebs by No Doubt) because she remembered something she was supposed to be doing. The second day, Abby stuck around a good half hour, and by the fourth day Abby was sitting next to Ellie in the back of the car. At first, Ellie didn’t know what to make of the audience member, but Abby was a surprisingly chill hang and interesting conversation partner in between songs.

“Is she a bad dancer?” Abby asked one day after Ellie had finished trying to match the bassline in Dua Lipa’s “Don’t Start Now”, prompting a gently raised eyebrow from Ellie. “She’s telling someone to walk away so they don’t see her dancing with somebody. She must be a bad dancer.”

“I think it’s more that she's moved on from an ex and she’s saying that if he doesn’t wanna feel jealous he should keep walking away.” It hadn’t been that long since Abby started hanging out with Ellie after school, but Ellie had already learned the best way to talk with Abby was to simply engage with her rather than dismissing it as wrong.

“Do you have an ex that you don’t want to dance with? I’ve never seen you with someone, though I don’t really see you other than sometimes in passing or after school.” Of course, there were some times where Abby’s topics delved towards the…unwanted, but Ellie, as always, just let it roll down her back.

“I have exes. I’m not with anyone right now. But what about you? The way you talk about that Tristan girl…someone’s got a crush, huh?” When Ellie asked the question, even in jest as she was, Abby began shaking her head like Abby had just heard something as harsh to the ears as nails down the chalkboard.

“Oh no no no, I don’t have those kind of feelings for Tristan, I just think what she did was really nice and cool and I still haven’t managed to find where the volleyball team practices. No one seems to know when I ask.”

“Have you tried asking Tristan?”

“I haven’t seen her since. Maybe she’s not even on the team, but I don’t know why else someone would walk around with volleyballs and have a uniform.” Ellie, at that point, nudged Abby in the side and pointed towards the blue Jeep Wrangler that Tristan was putting bags into the back of. The grin on Ellie’s lips remained as Abby rushed off to speak to Tristan while Ellie just continued her bass playing as normal.

A week and a half after Abby had been joining Ellie during bass practice, Ellie was back to a solo act. Abby didn’t stop hanging out, she simply stopped hanging out every day. Abby instead spent many of her days after school sitting on the side stands while the volleyball team practiced. She went unnoticed the first day and on the third day the team’s libero made a point to let the team know that “she’s here again”. It was weird; practices weren’t known for having guests, let alone for a sport that wasn’t football, but Abby kept quiet and didn’t bother anyone so what harm was there in letting her observe?

The rest of the team had no problem ignoring her, but Tristan kept noticing her. Abby wasn’t distracting with her presence, but it wasn't a coincidence that the day after she spoke to Abby and told her when the team did practices was the same day Abby showed up the first time. Every practice Abby did the same thing from the same seat. She periodically looked up at the court when Tristan was calling spots during scrim play and she would go back to her paper during warm ups or runs. Every so often during a reset, Tristan would look to where Abby was sitting, shake her head in confusion, and go back to focusing on practice.

And just as soon as the team started considering her an unofficial mascot, Abby stopped showing up. Tristan knew why, of course. After practice near the end of September, Abby waited for Tristan outside to hand her what she had been working on. “I didn’t know how to really thank you for what you did with those two boys but because your name is Tristan like the knight I thought you might like this. I’m pretty proud of it, I tried to make you look cool.” A drawing was placed in Tristan’s hands. A drawing of Tristan in knight armor in her spiking pose, holding a sword with a volleyball pommel.

“This is…me?” Tristan looked at the drawing and words struggled to come to mind. Her first piece of fan art and she hadn’t even gone pro. Did her brother have fan art? Fuck, she hoped not. “You made me look…badass.”

“I made you look how you are.”

There was a moment of silence as Tristan kept looking at the artwork while trying to keep herself from tearing up at it while Abby was simply smiling, as she always was, and hoping Tristan liked it. Abby couldn’t quite tell, but considering it wasn’t being ripped up she assumed it was liked just fine.

“There’s a little hang-out to-”
“Do you wanna get a slushie with Ellie Walters and me?”

The two girls spoke at the same time but only Abby continued on when she realized it. “A…slushie?”

“Yes. It’s like flavored ice with different colors. Ellie likes blue, I don’t know what specific flavor, she just says blue-.”

“I know what a slushie is. I was trying to invite you to a party tonight at a team member’s house. I wasn’t really looking forward to it, but I thought since the team already knows you…what’s the harm,”

“Oh. No thank you. I don’t really like parties. If you don’t want to go, why are you going? Just don’t. Get slushies and go bowling with Ellie and me instead.”

“Fuck it. Sure. Slushies and bowling.”

Tristan only went bowling with Ellie and Abby the one time, not because she disliked going, but because she lost the game and kicked the ball return station hard enough to leave a dent which got her banned for two months. But where before Ellie had one consistent audience member, now she had two - though Tristan only really came around to check up on Abby like a concerned parent or, more accurately, a protecting knight. She always stayed for at least one song.

October 18th, during the pep rally

The afternoon of the pep rally saw Ellie in the back of her car as usual, a blue slushie slowly melting its ice into a more palatable liquid form next to her, and on the other side of her was Abby, sitting cross legged, pressing her fists into her cheeks while drinking her red slushie through a straw. “I think I finally understand the lyrics of a song you listen to. I’m also bored and going blind. But that might be the sugar liquid. What’s funny?”

Ellie snickered at the statement as Longview by Green Day came to an end, with Ellie setting the bass to the side for a moment to turn her tongue blue. “He’s talking about masturbating, Abby. Doing it too much makes you go blind.”

“It does? But the health teacher last year said masturbation was healthy and fine.”

“It is. The blind thing was just superstition.”

“Do you masturbate, Ellie? I tried it once but I think I did it wrong.”

“I’m a single teenager, Abby, That’s my answer to that question. I wouldn’t worry about doing it wrong, if you didn’t like it, you didn’t like it. But you’ve got a point. It’s a bit boring. Wanna catch a movie or something?”

“Oh good, you’re here.” Tristan paced towards Ellie’s car with annoyance in every step. “I can’t handle another minute at that fucking pep rally. Rah rah bullshit for one team just because they’re boys. My stupid brother is doing shit with my idiot younger brother and stupid Mikey isn’t responding to my texts.”

“Who’s Mikey?”

“Her fuckbuddy.”

“My ex.”

“Do you want him to see you dancing with someone else?”

“What?”

“She likes Dua Lipa. But what’s the deal with you and Mikey, are you back together?”

“Ew, no. But I don’t want to show up at Homecoming dateless and he’s my best option.”

“I’ll go with you.” Abby said it without thinking, which was how she said most things. Both Ellie and Tristan turned their heads towards Abby, who was still absent mindedly drinking down her slushie. “Like as friends. I don’t really like dances but you’re my friend so I’ll help you. But I need to get an outfit.”

“I didn’t agree to-”

“Aw come on, going with a friend is way more fun than going with some guy who only calls you when he wants to fuck.” Tristan was going to regret ever telling Ellie about her situation with Michael O’Connor, but she could admit that there was a point being made. Why work so hard for a guy she didn't even like?

“Alright. Ellie, could you-”

“Yeah, to the Mermaid. You riding shotgun, Tristan?”

“Obviously.”

Ellie put her guitar in its case while Abby crawled into the backseat from the trunk. The three rather unlikely friends piled into Ellie’s car which hummed to life with an engine as smooth as Ellie’s voice. “Hey, Tristan, do you masturbate?”

The only one laughing at the question as the car pulled out of the parking lot was Ellie.

What shows/movies are you watching?

I hate that we've reached a point where I could just wait three weeks for a movie to go from theaters to on demand. The theater experience sucks, but it's part of the experience, dammit

BHHS: Limitless

As Vazira followed the path of destruction, fallen log by fallen log, and drew closer to the city, her nose twitched like she was holding in a sneeze. The air around Marindor was foul with smoke, salt, and secrets, none of which made for an appealing aperitif. The young girl had heard stories of this place, but none of them ever mentioned the smell. From a distance, the sight of Marindor could inspire awe. In the center of the city stood a tall, spired building that towered above every other structure, even the lighthouse at the far northeastern tip. This building, from which the rest of the city spiraled outward like the shell of a nautilus, had its front facing the east, its windows overlooking the docks from which the city earned the majority of its coin. Even at this early hour, with the sun only barely breaking through the horizon, blue and white merchant sails could be seen in the docks and more were soon to be arriving. Curiously, the piers furthest away from the docks, towards the west, looked thrown together with twine and twigs and stood in stark contrast to the sturdy, immaculate piers closer in.

But Marindor was a city of contrasts. Behind the central spire were houses and buildings whose white stone construction shone with the morning sunlight and were built in ascending rows, spiraling towards the top of a hill where an impressively garish manor house stood as if overlooking the port city; the contrast came with the buildings elsewhere in the city, their dull greystones were ravaged by the sea air, several windows were broken, and the outwardly spiraled construction made for confusing alleys and densely packed footpaths that made unsuspecting or unprepared sorts easy pickings for salty-faced cutpurses.

Vazira was not so easily swayed by appearances. The city smelled of lies and blood, a faint redolence of sin lingered on the nostrils and pickled the lips more sour than any mug of swill that flowed from the ale houses populated by sailors and nebbish merchants both looking for a good pricking. But somewhere in this city was the man responsible for killing her betrothed, and so Vazira entered Marindor in search of the trail that had led her here.

Rare was the time when Vazira was glad for the uniqueness of her birth. Though it was not uncommon to see the short and stout figures of the mountain dwelling dwarves in a human settlement such as this, the only elves this far south were ones who abandoned their homelands and grew plump and complacent right alongside their human compatriots. But someone like Vazira was an anomaly all her own, for orcs were savage, uncivilized brutes and the child of an orc mother and a human father was akin to laying with a beast in the eyes of those who made the laws of the land. An offspring of an orc and human was an impossibility, and yet here she was.

While Vazira’s ears were more rounded like those of a human (albeit with a pointed lobe), her skin was a harder sell. Among orcs, her pale complexion earned her ridicule and ire; among the civilized, she would no doubt appear to be sallow and thus unnatural and so Vazira drew her hood taut over her head.

The sound of fishmongers shouting at passersby held her attention as she stepped through the docks, already finding herself lost from the entrance. Her eyes poured over a pinkish fish displayed on a tray of ice, the seller holding a larger fish with gray skin out in front of him as he joined in the chorus of voices broadcasting their stock and their affordable prices. She’d never seen such a colorful fish. She’d never seen any fish before it was burnt brown with a stick stabbed through it, which was about as appealing to the mouth as it was to the eyes.

“You’ve nae geld, d’ye?” a voice aroused Vazira from her piscine reverie. The voice was thick of brogue and husky of tone and Vazira didn’t know quite how to respond, mostly because she didn’t quite understand what was being asked of her. “Jus’ ye’ve been’ starin’ awful lot at tha’ fish, gel. Ye nae go’ geld’ta buy it, have ye?”

The voice clarified, though it took Vazira a moment to put together that geld meant gold and from there it was easy enough to parse. Her response found itself hanging in her throat as she turned to look at the speaker. Standing next to her but not looking at her was a tall figure with hair the color of burnt strawberry and tightened into a braided tail. They wore a shirt of gray linen and black trousers tucked into leather boots. Around the waist Vazira could see a coin purse and, more importantly, a flintlock of which she was certain its twin was attached to the other leg. The one eye the half-orc could see was an emerald green that lit up as the figure smiled and the lack of three teeth in the back of the mouth was as enticing an imperfection as Vazira had ever known.


_{A Shot in the Arm}

During the Pep Rally

The letter arrived four days ago but Penny Amato still hadn’t opened it.

It was such a simple thing, opening a letter, Penny had done it so many times over the years, from birthdays and holidays to pay stubs and report cards, there was nothing to it. And yet the first day they got the letter, all Penny could do was put it on their desk and look at it from the safety of their bed. Periodically their eyes would drift from the show they were watching to the desk and at the damned letter, head swirling with the ringing belief that the contents inside the envelope were judging Penny in a silent chorus. More than once Penny worked up the courage to go a step beyond hovering their hand over it and actually held it in both hands - but every single time that happened, Penny looked at the sender’s address, looked at the logo in the corner, looked at their name smack in the center, and back to the desk it went. If it had been a college acceptance letter it would’ve been done and dusted, but college was whatever; inside this letter was Penny’s future.

Up until the letter arrived, Penny’s room was a place of comfort, a sanctuary where Penny could rest, recover, and revive. It was a shrine to Penny’s personal interests, posters for Game of Thrones were placed next to signed posters of the Lord of the Rings trilogy hung across from wall scrolls depicting anime robots which draped next to a cork board containing commissions of Penny’s various table top characters and on her desk, along with that damned letter, were notebook pages and notebooks proper, above which stood a shelf lined with miniatures and sets of dice. But the letter took the comfort away. Even when Penny put it inside a drawer or inside a book, its presence still loomed like that creepy feeling when you enter a house and just know someone died inside it. That feeling was one of the many reasons Penny never visited their mom at work at the hospital.

The longer Penny took to open the letter, the more it had a hold on their life; it hadn’t gotten to the point where it was keeping Penny awake at night but were they really about to let it get to that point? By the third day it almost became a comical routine. Penny would wake up, do their morning routine, and as they were putting on a shirt a size too big, the letter would flash in the periphery and Penny would pause, look towards the envelope, and for a brief moment it seemed like they were going to open it. But the moment passed, Penny sighed, and closed the door on the letter. Why was it so difficult? Penny already knew the contents, no letter that small and thin contained good news and of course they were prepared for that outcome but it was that preparation that made it such a difficult task. It wasn’t as if Penny had never faced rejection before, hell Penny had rejected people who thought that the best time to ask them out, in so many words, was when Penny was working at Plouf all because putting a heart in a latte sent people mixed signals.

Rejection was nothing new, but rejection via an impersonal, probably from a damn form letter, was painful.

But there was also the other possibility, that it wasn’t a rejection letter. That it was a letter of congratulations and that brought its own anxieties with it. It wasn’t even a complete work that Penny submitted but what if a full, finished sample was requested? No one even knew Penny was working on something so…well they hesitated to call it cliche but…uninspired? Even at school, Penny’s association with the literary magazine was more as an editor who read through submissions rather than someone whose work was featured. Penny was a theater kid, a stage performer, they didn’t write scripts. Could they even handle the responsibility if their sample was accepted? That was pressure that Penny didn’t need.

That damn letter was going to give them a panic attack.

On the Friday before Homecoming, Penny took the next best step to just opening the thing and getting it over with like a bandaid: they put it into their backpack and were determined to open it at lunch, because nothing soothed bad news quite like cafeteria tater tots. Lunch came and went and the letter remained unopened. And Penny didn’t even have tater tots. Friends could tell something was bothering Penny, but any time someone asked, Penny simply shook their head and said they were fine before changing the subject or finally contributing to the conversation.

What Penny needed was something to take their mind off the letter, or, better, someone to just open the damn thing instead. Or, as Penny spotted a familiar face as they deposited their garbage in a can and heard the sound of wheels on asphalt; the face in question quickly met the ground after she collided with another student, but by that point Penny was already formulating a plan.

While students were shuffling towards the pep rally, Penny told some people to save them a seat as they left the building, mentioning having forgotten something in their car. In the back of their mind Penny wondered if the resident skate punk would be at the pep rally thus making this entire endeavor even more pointless than it seemed, but those concerns were squashed as Penny crossed the parking lot desert towards the figure sitting on a bench, her skateboard leaning against the open spots on the bench next to her, fingers digging inside a small bag of chips.

“Bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Penny asked as they stood in front of the bench, backpack around their shoulder, hand rubbing their forehead and looking around as if what they were doing was some illegal act. To an outsider, Penny looked like someone who was worried that a cop would pop out of a bush and slap the cuffs on them, which they were willing to blame purely on the fucking letter. Why were they so nervous? Penny had bought weed before! They hadn’t been this nervous since the first time they went to a dispensary.

“What? My nose?” Everly Rigby looked up at the shadow standing in her sunlight, squinting until her eyes came into focus. Penny Amato. Not one of the regular customers, but with the way they were frantically looking around, Everly had to wonder if they’d even done this before. Which of course they had, Everly had been there. It was at a party after a school play - Everly wasn’t involved nor was she invited to the party but that hadn’t ever stopped her, and she distinctly remembered Penny hitting the bong like a real fiend.

“Oh. You’re eating baked chips. I thought, because you’re, you know…baked.” Penny shook her head. Was this what it felt like to cringe? How did people ever think they were cool? Everly looked at her bag of chips. Baked Lay’s, barbeque flavor, and gave Penny the world’s most obvious pity chuckle which only made Penny feel even more embarrassed. This was a stupid idea. It wasn’t too late to abort.

“Oh. Yeah. They taste better than the regular ones. And you get bigger chips.” Everly proved her work by pulling out a flat chip that resembled the shape of burnt cheese in a pan but in cracker form and took a crunch-filled bite. “You want one?” Everly held the bag to Penny, who held up a palm and shook her head.

“Can I ask you something, Everly?” The nod of agreement and the continued crunch of approval had Penny taking a deep breath. “Do…do you think you could…open a letter for me?” Just saying that out loud only deepened the skin crawling feeling of embarrassment that Penny was not used to feeling.

“Do your fingers not work, dude? You just lift the edge and pull, it’s real easy.” Everly began to mime the act of opening a letter and in the process spilled a chip onto the ground. “Shit.”

“No..I know how to…look, it’s a long story and I’m kinda embarrassed and you’re gonna laugh at me and I know it’s stupid but…I don’t have anyone else I can turn to, my friends would make fun of me, my mom would-”

“Your mom’s like James Bond, right?”

“What? Everly, what, what the fuck are you?”

“I got a bet going. No one really knows anything about your parents and my money is on them being, like, spies.”

“That…look, can you focus?”

“Can you?” Everly’s comment came from nowhere but it succeeded in getting Penny to pause and take a breath. Once again Everly offered Penny a chip, and once again it was turned down. Everly took the last chip in the bag and crunched down while crinkling the bag into a neat, compact square. “You’re bein’ really weird, dude, which is super weird cuz you’re, like, cool enough that I hear people say they’ve never seen you shaken up. I’m not a therapist or nothin’, but I think you need to step into my office.”

“You have an office?”

“Hell yeah, dude. It’s metal four ick hole.” Everly stood up and before Penny could piece together what the hell that meant, she was skating away at a pace meant for Penny to follow. It was only after a sigh that Penny did follow.

Vazira was getting distracted. She wasn’t here in Marindor to socialize or join in the chorus as mugs of ale were clinked together and spilled onto tables and fingers pinched at dress bottoms of a bonnie dwarven lass who, more than anything, wanted to bash the mugs over the heads of people whose hands wandered. And yet here she was, an untouched mug in front of her, hands balled into clumps in her lap while all around her the sounds of drunken revelry pricked her ears. Cooling on the plate in front of her was the salivating scent of crimfish, though her eyes weren’t drawn to the fish as they had been when she spied it in the market; no, the half-orc’s eyes were drawn to the emerald eyed woman at the head of the table. As they had been since the first honeyed words slithered into her ears.

Of one thing Vazira was certain. The men she was sharing a table with were pirates and they were captained by Kherington, the emerald eyed and strawberry haired, but the why of it all escaped her. Why was she here, amongst the rowdy crew, why had a pirate seen fit to buy a fish for her, and why was Vazira so…enraptured. Every second here was a second kept away from her goal and though Kherington’s words were true, truer still now that Vazira’s stomach rumbled as if a cannonball was fired upon an enemy vessel, that didn’t change the fact that if she didn’t excuse herself after the piscine dinner, the already lukewarm trail would grow frigid.

“Oi, Cap’n, s’with the cloaked weirdo?” A thumb with a red splotch akin to strawberry jelly in place of a thumb poked towards Vazira’s direction and the sickly stench emanating from the pus around the edges was enough to overpower and ruin the appetite.

“She’s a guest’o’mine.” Kherington snapped back, wiping frothed foam from her upper lip, a gesture so normal and ordinary that only Vazira watched it with a quiet intensity. Every action the pirate captain took was curious to the half-orc. “And she’s part’a’the plan.”

For the first time since being set at the table, Vazira appeared to blink and move. “I’m…I’m what?” Her voice was lost amidst the howl of the alehouse and even speaking up seemed to do nothing. “I’M WHAT?” She shouted. More, she roared. Silence filled the alehouse as one by one every head and eyeball in the establishment turned towards her. Vazira was still cloaked, but in that moment it felt as if everyone could see beneath the linen.

“Found yer voice, didja?” Kherington cackled, leering towards Vazira, an intensity in the singular eye that bespoke interest beyond simple curiosity. “Now where’d that come from, gel?” The heavy way in which the captain called Vazira ‘girl’ took a different connotation here. Back in the fish market it sounded playful, almost flirty; here it almost seemed threatening. Vazira began calculating her chances of getting out of here unscathed, even if she could set some of the ale-soaked beards on fire with a twist of the wrist, the door might as well have been kilometers away, and just escaping the alehouse didn’t mean safety. They would pursue her, especially if they decloaked her.

“Surely ye didnae think the fish was outta the goodness of m’heart?” Another cackle from Kherington which had the voices of her crew joining the chorus. “Silly gel. I got no heart at all.” The laughter roared louder and Vazira knew any chance of escape was a childish notion. The damning part was there was a side of her that didn’t want to escape. There was a part of her that wanted to follow Kherington to hell.

“So, let me see if I understand.” Everly took a drag from the blunt and held it out to Penny as she exhaled a pluff of smoke. The two were seated beneath a cottonwood tree on a small hill just barely within the BHHS grounds. From here they could see the parking lot, the quad, and the school building itself; it was a good place to hold an office, Everly explained on the way, because if anyone tried to interrupt then they’d be spotted well enough to hide any evidence of wrongdoing. Between the pair of them, music played from a phone - they couldn’t smoke without music - and Everly took her shoes off to enjoy the grass. “You submitted parts of a story to a publisher and you can’t handle the rejection? And that’s why you needed to relax? I didn’t even know you wrote stuff. What’s it about?”

“I don’t know.” Penny shook their head and began to puff the joint. “That’s part of the problem. Because there’s a small chance they liked it, but I don’t really have any idea of where to take the story. But…it’s meant to be like…a fantasy romance thing. Like an orc falls in love with this pirate captain while she’s on the trail of the man who killed her betrothed. It’s…it’s stupid.” Penny passed the blunt to a nodding Everly.

“Yeah, it sounds boring.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean, I don’t really care about shit like that. Fantasy and orcs and warriors and stuff. I got bored with Game of Thrones once Daenerys’ actress decided she was above getting railed by Jason Momoa.”

“Kind of a gross misunderstanding of the story but…sure.” The blunt continued to be passed between the two of them, and now that Penny had her mind occupied by a simple conversation, they didn’t realize how much they needed it. They weren’t even thinking about the letter right now even though it was still lingering in the recesses of the mind. “It’s just…I don’t know.”

“The view is nice here, isn’t it?” Everly seemed to change the topic but Penny turned her gaze towards where Everly was looking. As far as views went…it was probably fine. You could get a similar one from one of the windows on the third floor of the school, but from this vantage point the field of view was wider. Right now on the quad there were students ditching the pep rally and in the parking lot they could see Ellie Walters strumming her bass while sitting in her car’s open trunk with a melting blue slushie next to her. Behind them was a tree that had initials of couples of BHHS past carved into it.

“Sure? It’s…passable.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice view. You know, I wanted to bring Stella here but then I realized that taking her to basically look at the school we go to is a terrible idea.”

“Stella…Manning. That Stella?” If Penny had the blunt they would’ve coughed. “You’ve got it hot for Stella? Get in line, man, you and like every straight dude and bisexual person walking the halls.”

“Dude, what? No, I’ve got, like, a crush on her.”

“That’s…that’s what I…never mind. Stella…I mean, yeah, she’s nice.”

“Beautiful.”

“Sure, beautiful.”

“A goddess among mortals.”

“Okay, reign it in, Ev.”

“Gorgeous.”

“Yeah, sure, can I finish?” Penny took a look at Everly, who was looking down at the quad, her expression weirdly wistful, which was not an expression she thought Everly, she of eternal good vibes, could make. “Yeah, Stella’s nice and I’ve never disliked sharing the stage with her, I mean I prefer Katie but don’t tell Stella that, but I don’t think she’s capable of, like…I mean..isn’t she dating Ethan Green or something?”

“Yeah, I think so. And, like, I get it. Henry Green is a Green and I’m a drug dealer. He can open a lot of doors for her, career wise, and all I can do is open actual doors for her. But like…our Freshman year I saw her do the fall play and she just…became the character. People always talk about her appearance but it’s not about that for me. I believe she could actually be famous and I want to support that, and she’s not just her physical beauty, you know?” Everly had the blunt in her hand but didn’t take a hit. She just held it while keeping her gaze forward. “I know we walk in different circles and I know that I have no shot with her, but if I let that take over my thoughts then I’d be..well…I’d be a wreck.”

Penny listened to Everly’s words and wrestled with the idea of putting a hand on Everly’s back. The way Everly spoke, it was like listening to someone talk about the one that got away but Penny believed they were seeing a side of the school’s resident skateboarding drug dealer that not many people ever saw. If they weren’t getting high and here under unique circumstances they’d be a bit flattered to be trusted enough to see such vulnerabilities. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were, like, into her into her. But…what does this have to do with, well, anything?”

“And people call me a dumbass.” Everly smirked and took her last hit from the blunt, handing it off to Penny, who was damn near offended by the implication. “If I asked you to, would you put in a good word about me to Stella?”

“I mean…yeah, but-”

“But it wouldn’t be the same as if I just talked to her.”

“Well…well yeah.”

“Your letter is like Stella Manning.”

“It’s a decent actress with nice tits?” Everly looked towards Penny like Penny had just kicked a puppy. “Sorry.” Their apology came with the punctuation mark of the final hit on the joint.

“I could open the letter for you. And I could read you the contents. But it wouldn’t be the same as doing it yourself. I know when I do tell Stella my feelings that she’s gonna reject me. But I don’t let that stop me from having those feelings. I’m not afraid of rejection, Penny. And you shouldn’t be either.” Everly stood on the spot and stretched her arms over her head. The school day was going to be over very soon and customers would be arriving. Everly would be there for them. She always was. The sad part was that she might always be even when everyone else was gone to bigger and better things.

“We’re kids, Penny. We don’t have to have it all figured out,”

“Everly..” Penny paused and Everly, who had grabbed her shoes and was starting the descent down the hill back to the quad, looked over her shoulder. “You’d make a pretty good cleric with that wisdom.”

“I don’t know what that means, dude.”

With a shared moment of laughter and a departing wave from Everly, Penny was left on her own again, with their backpack slumped against the tree. Penny waited until they saw Everly’s baseball cap wearing head reach the parking lot before grabbing their backpack and taking out the letter. There wasn’t any hesitation. No nervous, shaking fingers as she turned the envelope over and opened it with a tear. Inside was a folded letter and Penny’s fingers began to shake as they removed the letter and began the process of unfolding it.

As their eyes scanned the words and the truth she expected was confirmed, all they could do was smile.

BHHS: Limitless

Abby!

_{Ashley "Abby" Beswick}

17 • Female • Asexual, Panromantic • She/Her • Single

(FC: Chloé Hayden; Dialogue: 86EDE8)

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Ｉｎｔｒｏ

► reputation

There are two camps of thought when it comes to Abby, three if you count the people who are confused why she goes by Abby even though her name is Ashley: the people who think she's weird and the people who think she's weird but use language like 'quirky' to sound nicer. Abby is weird, sure, but she's the kind of weird that is uniquely freeing in an environment like high school and especially a high school where reputation is everything. Abby is the kind of girl who seems absolutely unaware of social expectations at BHHS to the point where she has, on more than one instance, seen an open seat during lunch and sat down even though it would be at the Hive table or the Elite table and anytime someone said "Excuse me" to her in an attempt to get her to leave, she would just look at them with her mouth full of drink or sandwich and ask "Why, did you burp?" If it was anyone else her words might've been seen as mocking. Maybe they were. But Abby just wanted a place to eat her lunch, what does it matter if it's where someone who was late to lunch was 'supposed' to sit?

When she isn't causing international high school incidents, Abby is often found in the art room getting paint on her clothes as she works on her latest piece, failing that she's on the quad, sometimes twirling until she falls into the grass or other times just laying on her back - possibly even napping. She doesn't quite like the party culture that makes up interactions at school, preferring to spend her weekends at a gallery or eating rainbow sherbet and popsicles until her brain freezes. People haven't seen her at parties, but they have seen her at BHHS because it's hard to miss someone who is so loud without even having to say anything.

► current dilemma

Abby, like any respectable high school student, is freaking out over life after high school. She hasn't applied to colleges because none of them really have any programs that interest her and she doesn't think art needs to learn math or other gen eds when she can just get some canvas, paints, and see what happens after six hours. But societal pressures mean that she has expectations of getting a career if not a college education but that is an equally daunting prospect. It may not be as dramatic as some students at school, but behind the ever present smile is the mind of someone who sees the future and for the first time in their life doesn't see a bright spot ahead.

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Ｄｅｔａｉｌｓ

► social media handles

Abby doesn't use social media because she's seen people who take it very seriously and they always seem like they're a drug addict but their drug is online interaction. The most she has is a phone for group texts. She has considered starting one for her art but she doesn't think there's much of a point to posting pictures of her paintings on the internet. She doesn't need those strange people who negatively comment on everything someone works on.

► style

If there's a brand associated with the clothes Abby wears, it's not one of any real note. It's not that she isn't fashionable or stylish, it's just that her wardrobe is very...pastel. Someone once described an outfit she wore as "if mint chocolate chip ice cream was clothing" but she was wearing a very nice bright green that day. Abby often wears overalls that have paint on them - but only on days when she intends to paint. She always wears different eye shadow shades on both eyes, and they're always analogous or triadic colors. If one eye is bright blue, expect the other to be yellow or pink.

► ride & everyday items

Abby doesn't have a driver's license so she often has to ride with others or get dropped off by a parent or guardian. She'll take public transportation but only when other options have been exhausted.

► occupation

She doesn't have a job but she does frequent the Creamistry a lot. A scoop of rainbow sherbet is her go-to.

► extracurricular activities

She's a member of the art club and once got into a misunderstanding with another member who really wanted to only draw something called a 'doujinshi'. She didn't know what it meant and still doesn't.

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Ｑｕｅｓｔｉｏｎｎａｉｒｅ

Friends would describe me as _______.

"A pronoun used by a speaker to refer to himself or herself as the object or verb or preposition. That definition seems a little outdated in regards to modern understandings of personal pronouns but other than that it's a pretty textbook definition and description of the word 'me'. It's all hypothetical anyway, I don't know if I have friends but it's okay! I mean people are nice to me but I'm not getting invited to sleepovers. I have a pet frog, if he could talk I hope he'd describe me as a good mom."

In my free time I like to _______.

"Well I like to paint and eat ice cream but everyone already knows that. I really like space I like to imagine I'm in space not like in a rocket ship or on Star Trek or something but just like...floating in space without a suit and helmet. But...yes mostly I like to make art, look at art, and eat ice cream."

I would like to learn _______ in the next year.

"How to draw hands. Hands are tough. Well they're soft to touch. At least mine are. I think other peoples hands are also soft. I think I'd like to hold a hand to confirm."

This is how I define success and failure:

"I don't actully define success or failure, those words are already defined. I don't believe I can define them any better than the experts already have. Success feels better than failure but failure leads to success so you need both, I think."

I'm inspired by _______.

"Nature, space, the sky, life. Life is beautiful and messy and disguting and wonderful and interesting and so many people are willing to let it pass them by. All my most creative artworks come from life."

These songs are the soundtrack to my life:

"Europe Endless by Kraftwerk"
"It's Not Up To You by Bjork"
"Kill v Maim by Grimes"
"Gangsta by Tune-yards"
"Two Weeks by FKA twigs"
"Wouldn't It Be Nice by The Beach Boys"
"Haircut by Petey and Miya Folick"
"AMERICAN GURL by Kilo Kish"
"It's Not Just Me, It's Everybody by Weyes Blood"
"Abrasive by Ratatat"

My fondest memory as a child was _______.

"My parents wanted me to try an outdoor activity so I played youth league soccer. I played by the goalie because everyone had to have a position and that was the only one. I didn't do much except for one game where I got hit in the chest with the ball after a wayward kick which allowed our team to regain control and win the game. We got pizza and trophies at the end of the season. It wasn't until later that I learned all the kids on the team got a trophy but that didn't take away from the nice feeling of being a useful member of the team."

If I could tell my younger self something, I would say:

"Finger painting is a totally valid form of expression no matter what the babysitter said. But maybe get permission before doing it on walls, some people think it's vandalism."

The things that make me smile are _______.

"I'm always smiling, except when I'm not, but if I'm not smiling then it's because my eyes are closed and I'm trying to go back to my happy place."

My whole life story in one sentence:

"I am."

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► extra information

She has a pet frog. His name is Flapjack. He's a good frog.

What shows/movies are you watching?

Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes, while not as good as Dawn or War, is a totally fine start to a new trilogy and also the latest blockbuster movie to show Disney that if you're gonna use CGI for 90 percent of your movie, at least take the time to make it look fuckin good.

Video Games: The General Discussion & Community Thread Number Two

The Stellar Blade 'controversy' thing is hilarious and the Helldivers 2 thing is not hilarious but it's real funny how Microsoft is just the gold medalist in hitting themselves in the face with a pie whenever Sony tries to take the crown

BHHS: Limitless

Maggot Brain

As the faucet in the bathroom finished filling up the sink, Naomi Davis looked into the mirror and only saw cracks. The bathroom on this corner of the third floor at this time of morning was thankfully empty as she knew it would be. Bathrooms were always empty when Naomi Davis entered them, just that sometimes it took a moment of tapping her foot on the tile while one of her entourage cleared their throat in case the stragglers didn’t get the hint. Rare were the moments that Naomi used a public bathroom, but even rarer were the times when girls like Naomi used the bathroom for its intended purpose. When homeroom ended, Naomi told Lottie not to wait up but she didn’t care if Lottie understood or not. She might not have even said anything, she was out of the classroom with the speed of someone who was looking at the clock and packed their bags with five minutes left before class was dismissed.

Naomi left the classroom, closed her eyes, took a breath, and walked. Normally, whenever she walked these halls, the other students watched her move as if in slow motion, always looking forward, posture perfect, heels clacking, entourage matching her intensity, only the foolish and the ignorant crossing in front of her. There was something different about her gait, it was swift but awkward, as if she had barely walked in heels before and was trying not to show it. Her face was stoic, but even she could tell that her lips were quivering like her heart was racing and she was on the verge of breaking into a hyperventilated onslaught of tears. Her only consolation was that everyone in the halls parted in her presence like an emergency siren on the street or a police escort on a crowded road. With everyone getting out of her way, it meant less of a chance of anyone trying to be brave and speak up to her, but the closer she got to her destination the more she wished she had the support of her court to serve as a buffer.

Without them there was only Naomi and when there was only Naomi there was nothing to focus on, no conversation between Angel and Indy, no off handed remark by Lottie, no grounding hand on the back from Levi. Nothing. Just Naomi. Just Naomi and the students who were conditioned to get out of her way. Just Naomi and the crippling realization that she was alone in the halls, a boat adrift at sea that was taking on water. For one single moment Naomi paused and closed her eyes again. If Levi were here he’d probably find a way to ask what was wrong without asking what was wrong and Naomi would reply nothing and their procession would continue.

But there was only Naomi and as she opened her eyes and quickened her pace she was acutely aware that there were eyes watching, lips whispering, rumors spreading, questions being asked. Where was the rest of the Hive? Where was she going? Why was she walking so quickly. Was she shaking? Were her lips quivering? Did she really wear that outfit today? Who does she think she is? Does she know she’s worse than Satan? Why do you think she’s single? Did you know her last boyfriend broke up with her? Who would want to date her anyway? Did you hear her daddy bought her those lips? Have you heard her taste in music? What is she, like sixty years old? What a loser what a bitch what a loser what a phony what a loser what a BITCH what a PHONY what a LOSER what a -

The water in the bathroom sink spilled onto the floor as Naomi’s head dunked itself beneath the surface. Bubbles rose to the top as she opened her mouth and tried to speak. No words. No sound. Just the weight of the world keeping her head under the water while her finger gripped the corners of porcelain just hard enough to make her palms go white. If she were squeezing her hands any harder without the sink there to catch her ire, she would have pierced flesh. Naomi closed her eyes as more bubbles bounded for the surface. Even with eyes closed underwater she could feel the ripples and the splashes and the waves. When the bubbles left her mouth this time, they popped and her ears shook with what she heard. A voice not her own but calling her name. A voice belonging to a shadowed figure obscured by light. “naomi Na…O….mi naOMI…NAOMI!”

Naomi Davis lifted her head out of the water and looked around in a panic. Where was she? She didn’t like it here. She was going to die she was going to die she hated this she hate she hate she hate follow the voice what voice where’s the voice where… “Naomi!” Naomi lifted the goggles from her eyes and looked towards the light as the figure beckoned her with open arms. Naomi shook her head, teeth chattering, arms flailing, feet kicking back and forth but she was standing still. Floating still. “Come on, Naomi, you’re right there!” The voice continued, the arms of the shadowy figure slowly coming into focus.

The voice belonged to a woman and Naomi pushed and paddled her way towards the woman, who bent down and helped lift Naomi up into the warm embrace of a towel. The chattering of teeth stopped only to be replaced by the full body shivering as the gentle breeze of the open air made the water dripping from Naomi feel that much colder; but nothing was as cold as the gaze Vanessa Davis was giving her young daughter. “Dry off. Go again.”

“I don’t wanna.” Naomi was running the towel over her hair. The sound in her left ear was a little fuzzy but the book had said that could happen while swimming and the fuzz didn’t make it any more difficult to hear the sounds of laughter and splashes as kids did cannonballs and jumped into the pool and splashed each other. Out of the corner of her eye, Naomi could see the large banner hanging from the awning of the roof where the pool normally sold ice cream and soda pop. ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAOMI!’ it said, and behind the banner, working the grill behind the counter was an employee who drew the short straw as he flipped burgers and checked on hot dogs and fried chicken strips for the guests. It was supposed to be her dad handling the cooking, with a bottle of beer in hand, an apron with some funny saying, and flip flops with socks. But he wasn’t here.

Half the kids in the pool didn’t even know Naomi, they just had the good fortune to be in her elementary school class. The other half didn’t know her either, but they were told that Dwayne Johnson was gonna show up and for that level of fame they could pretend to be friends with Naomi Davis and even if he didn’t show up…it was an afternoon at the pool and it came with an ice cream cake. But Naomi wasn’t seeing the kids and how much fun they were having without her. At her own birthday party. All she saw was the look of utter disappointment on her mother’s face. “What was that?” She asked, snatching the towel from Naomi’s grasp so quickly that Naomi was worried it would be snapped against her.

“I wanna go play.” Naomi didn’t even want the party at the pool. She hated the pool. She wanted it at Six Flags and she didn’t know what her parents did but she knew they could afford to rent the whole park out for her birthday so she could go on all the rides and have a big cotton candy. They could take a school bus and bring her whole grade and for one day she’d be on top of the world in the eyes of everyone. But the pool was closer. The pool was cheaper. The pool was chosen for her.

“Play? Play with who?” Her mother asked and Naomi gestured towards the classmates in the pool who were having water wars by swinging pool noodles at each other like they were in Star Wars. “And how are you going to play with them? You can’t swim, Naomi. That’s what I’m trying to teach you.”

“They’re in the not deep part. I’m fine in that part. I wanna go play.” As Naomi turned to join her classmates in the pool, a hand clamped on her wrist as icy as handcuffs. “You’re hurting, momma.” Naomi was pulled back and Vanessa Davis crouched down to look her daughter closer in the eyes.

“You don’t get to play. Not until I say so. You don’t know these kids and you don’t owe these kids your time. They’re not here for you, they’re here for that.” Vanessa pointed to the birthday cake on the picnic tables in the eating area. There weren’t even any presents, but Naomi suspected her mom kept them hidden from her. “Don’t waste your time trying to impress people who are lesser than you. But right now, you’re lesser than they are. Do you know why?” Naomi just shook her head slowly, her eyes looking down at the ground. “Because they can swim.”

“I didn’t want a pool party! I told you that! And where are my presents? It’s my birthday, there’s supposed to be -” Naomi’s protests were cut off by Vanessa gripping her fingers onto Naomi’s small, bare shoulder. “Momma, you’re hurting…”

“Stop complaining. You didn’t have to have a party at all. Throwing a tantrum won’t get you anywhere. You’re seven years old now. You’re a big girl, and what don’t big girls do?”

“Cry.” Naomi and her mother spoke at the same time and the grip to Naomi’s shoulder loosened. The seven year old on the verge of crying closed her eyes and pushed the tears back inside. Where they belonged. “Can I go play now?”

“No.” Before Naomi could protest, she felt the wind leave her lungs as her mother’s hands shoved into her chest. Naomi stumbled and fell backwards. The water slapped her body and her arms and legs jutted upward, putting her body in a ‘U’ shape as she sank. Deeper and deeper. The light overhead got further and further away until all she saw was black. Weightless. Deeper and deeper.

Down

to

the

bottom

When Naomi surfaced the sights were familiar. Salmon pink walls. The scent of lavender. Otis Redding playing from a speaker wired throughout the house.She looked down at the bathwater and didn’t recognize the legs in front of her. Her feet were bruised, her big toe was hanging on by a thread and the memories came flooding back. She was thirteen. It was her birthday. Her father had left half a carton of Haagen-Dazs in the freezer but it had been there for a week. Naomi knew one of her father’s credit card numbers and so for this particular birthday he had bought for her a small pizza, a slice of cake, and roller skates. The roller skates had been why her foot was so bruised; they had been a tight fit and by the time she realized her foot was swollen and her toe was fucked, it had already been hours. She skated through the pain, going so fast down the street that the wind wiped away her tears. She didn’t cry. She was a big girl.

In the bathtub she sank back under the water and the crooning sound of Cigarettes and Coffee became further and further muted and distant as once again she fell. The confines of the bathtub fell away and the bathwater joined the deep, dark depths of the ocean. Naomi was weightless but she kept sinking from the burden of responsibility. Again she heard the familiar voice beckoning her forward, that she was right there. Her name. Go again. Go again. Go again. Go. Go go go go go go go go go go go go.

Water splashed onto the tiled floor as Naomi lifted her head out of the sink and coughed. Her grip loosened on the porcelain corner as she took a step back, panting, heaving, face soaked with water that was dripping to the floor and expanding the puddle she had made. In the mirror her face was dry, her expression was cold and she was clicking the roof of her mouth; it was a stark contrast to how she knew she looked in the moment. A mess. A mess who needed to get a grip lest her own reflection continue to judge her just like her mother did.

“Fuck you.” Naomi spoke to the face in the mirror and the face responded in kind.

In her pocket was the phone with the unresponded message from Levi that brought about this particular episode. Running for office. Ever since freshman year, Naomi had been primed to be the next queen of Beverly Hills High School, a position she accepted without hesitation. She was perfect for it. People thought she was beautiful, she had money, she had connections, she could talk down to someone while staring them at eye level even if they were taller than her, she had people who opened doors for her in every sense of the word. Everyone knew her name, even if sometimes it was sandwiched between profanity and a hocked lob of spit onto the grass. But she could handle hatred. She wasn’t trying to impress the students she ruled over, but if they knew what a day in the life of Naomi Davis was like, they’d be impressed and not so quick to curse under their breath when she walked past.

Being at the top of the social hierarchy meant having to have fingers in every goddamn situation. Who was dating who while fucking who, who was persona non grata this month, who got on the lists, who to keep away from situations so as not to topple the balance of cliques and egos that was the ecosystem of high school. Was she perfect? No. Did things run smoothly? More or less. Did anyone even know how much she fucking did? No. They’d rather call her a bitch. That was fine. Words could never hurt her in a way that mattered and if they knew how difficult it was they would be apologizing. Not that she needed approval. She was taught not to worry about impressing people beneath her.

But social hierarchy was different from the political office of school. Naomi could make decisions on where to host parties but she could only merely suggest to the staff sweeping changes or policies. Previous student council leaders were content to let Naomi whisper suggestions and then take the heat when they got shot down or backfired. Maybe that was why no one wanted the damn job. When it came to being the president of the council it meant having to face the people she spent four years lording over. It meant having to stand in front of them and explain to them why she should be the one to dictate the next eight months of their lives.

It meant having to hear their words dead on.

It meant facing consequences.

It meant social suicide if she failed.

It meant having them push her into the pool.

It meant she had to impress people lesser than her.

The Naomi in the mirror could handle it. The Naomi in the mirror had already thought of a campaign and begun slandering her opponents. The Naomi in the mirror shook her head as she looked at the soggy-faced girl on the other side. The Naomi in the mirror was the Naomi that would leave this bathroom and be the Naomi that the staff and students interacted with. But that Naomi stepped away from the mirror and the one that took her place couldn’t tell if the water at the corner of her eyes was from the sink or her own tear ducts.

“Big girl. You’re a big girl. No tantrums. I can swim. I…I can swim.” Naomi closed her eyes and when she opened them the woman in the mirror nodded at what she saw. With a confident hand she reached into her pocket and looked at Levi’s message once again. There was only one response she could give.

To: Levi
They might as well start calling us Madam and Mister President

Before leaving the bathroom, Naomi took one last look in the mirror, but from her angle by the door the only thing she could see were the splashes of water streaking down the glass.

BHHS: Limitless

Penny Amato

_{Penny Amato}

17 • Fluid • Pansexual • They/She/He • Single

(FC: Ruby Cruz; Dialogue: 73997E)

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► reputation

As much as it is possible to be an enigma at BHHS, Penny Amato is one. It's a well known secret that Penny Amato isn't their birth name but most people, at this point, have stopped trying to work out the mystery of Penny's family and have just accepted that Penny is just another face in the halls. Albeit a very nice face, by all accounts. No one could deny that Penny is a bit of a nerd, they play TTRPGs and even have a character that they have played as for years and they have a decently well known Twitch stream where they just build and paint model kits while talking to the chat or reading things sent to them - because Penny's other well known feature is their voice. Penny has a unique voice, it's husky and smooth which Penny learned makes some people feral - one time they went on mic while playing Valorant with some friends and the randoms on the team spent the entire match asking her to say things like 'Hi honey' and 'Ara ara'. They didn't get it at first. That combination of voice and face was also what made them a bit of a mainstay in the theater department of BHHS, appearing in performances since Freshman year and auditioning for masculine and feminine roles.

Penny's reputation at BHHS is fairly positive. As far as they know they don't have any enemies but they're also savvy enough to know how to play the game - which only adds to the rumor that they have some knowledge of social climbing thanks to the mysterious family. Whether on stage or just hanging out, it's hard not to notice Penny whether they want it or not. Some want to be their friend, others just want to know what their deal is, but the only family Penny is interested in talking about is the families of the fantasy novels they read.

► current dilemma

Penny doesn't really have any post high school plans. They don't exactly want to get into acting but nor do they want to be a career barista. Penny would like to maybe be an author but they have no confidence in their own writing, even though they're part of the BHHS literary magazine and have helped with scripting in theater productions. Secretly, Penny thinks it'd be cool if they got to be in the running for Prom King or Queen but they're smart enough to know that those roles are basically filled before the prom even happens. But maybe this year is the year that the status quo is shaken up. It is the last chance, after all. Penny also has a wealth of expectations put on them by their family, but that's a can of worms that Penny refuses to open with classmates.

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► social media handles

Penny has a Twitch stream where they build model kits and interact with chat. To their surprise, it has earned her a decently niche following and some extra pocket change - it turns out people on the internet will totally donate to get Penny to read fanfiction or tongue twisters or innuendo comments while they paint some tabletop figures or build a Star Wars ship. Their Twitch handle is 'PenNPaper' which is also their Twitter handle. On Discord they just go by Penny as their display name with the username being amatotomato.

► style

Some people put in a lot of effort to make it seem like they didn't actually put in effort, but in Penny's case they actually don't put in much effort at all. Penny dresses as if they buy their entire wardrobe from Goodwill or Salvation Army, a whole lot of old jeans and baggy shirts like hockey jerseys or button up flannel and khakis. If there is any regularity with their outfits, it's a preference for sleeveless shirts. They wear Converse shoes a lot but they will wear a pair of shoes until its falling apart. The only consistent aspect of Penny's style is that their hair, unless in a play, is always shaggy and unkempt, and yet even then their bangs always seem to be styled slightlt differently every day.

► ride & everyday items

Penny's car of choice is an Alfa Romeo Giulia but they don't have one. What they do have and drive is a Volkswagen Arteon R-Line in Kingfisher Blue. Even that car is a bit richer than they'd care to admit, but it was a sweet sixteen gift. Or so they say.

► occupation

Penny is a barista at Plouf Cafe and Bakery. Penny does not bake anything but does enjoy tiramisu and the croissants. They do latte art and have gotten better at it though most are satisfied with them just making a heart in the latte.

► extracurricular activities

Penny is a member of the BHHS literary magazine and is a known figure in the theater department. Even if they don't get a part after auditioning, Penny will still help put on a play even if in a stagehand role.

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Friends would describe me as _______.

"A rules nerd. No, seriously, I have a bad habit of annoying the DM because they sometimes don't know the rules of the classes in the group. I mean, I don't do it often but I've done it enough that it's kind of a running gag with my group. I don't know, I think my friends would describe me as nice or friendly or whatever, it's boring. I don't have anything more exciting or interesting than that. I'd describe my friends as annoying because some of them bother me at work which is cool and all but then they start asking for free cakes but all I can give them is a biscotto. No, I don't know why an Italian cookie is in a French themed cafe but I don't make the menu, I just brew the coffee and get awkward flirts from customers."

In my free time I like to _______.

"Read books. I'm working through the fantasy section at the book store. I also started writing my own fantasy stories but don't tell anyone, they're bad and I don't want people to think I'm lame."

I would like to learn _______ in the next year.

"How to be a good DM and run my own session."

This is how I define success and failure:

"Success is being able to go to bed at night with a smile. That's kinda corny. I don't know, man, who thinks about this stuff? I'm just happy when I get a B on a test I didn't study for, especially in science. Why do I need to know physics? I'm not gonna be a physicist and I already know what I need to about chemistry: fire is hot, don't touch it and if it smells like poison, roll a constitution save to not get poisoned."

I'm inspired by _______.

"I dunno, I guess Tilda Swinton and Naomi Novik?"

These songs are the soundtrack to my life:

"20 Dollars by boygenius"
"Life on Mars by David Bowie"
"The Narcissist by Blur"
"Snail by The Smashing Pumpkins"
"Feel the Pain by Dinosaur Jr."
"Spit on a Stranger by Pavement"
"The Bard's Song by Blind Guardian"
"Heaven on Their Minds by Carl Anderson (from Jesus Christ Superstar)"
"Scott Street by Phoebe Bridgers"
"Your Best American Girl by Mitski"

My fondest memory as a child was _______.

"In middle school I was cast in a pre-teen production of Treasure Island. I got to play the part of Billy Bones who, you know, is basically only in the play for one scene. I got to have a stage sword fight, it was cool. I got the part because no other kid, not even the boys, could have a piratey gravely rasp to their voice but I could even though I needed a lot of water and tea at home after. Anyway, the best part was after when someone in like third grade saw me in the hallway a few days later and said I was really good in the play. I never thought I'd consider stage acting until then. So I guess thanks to that kid, I hope they're doing cool."

If I could tell my younger self something, I would say:

"You don't have to hide, people are way more willing to accept you these days. Well, mostly. So don't be afraid to wear 'boys clothes' with 'girls clothes'."

The things that make me smile are _______.

"Rolling a nat 1 and having to embrace the chaos that brings. Getting a flower after a performance. I never know if that's, like, a flirty thing or not."

My whole life story in one sentence:

"Somehow won most of the charisma checks but failed everything else."

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► extra information

Really would prefer you stop asking about their parents or what their real name is.

What shows/movies are you watching?

Now that it's May 4th I am once again legally allowed to say that The Last Jedi is the best Star Wars movie