[b]Anathet![/b]

You are the transportation for Canada. Without your ability to open portals, you would find it much more difficult to sneak in and out of one of the most heavily guarded palaces in all of Caphtor. Opening the portals to come back is always a little nerve-wracking, isn’t it? Wondering if today, someone will be in the wrong spot in the wrong time, if you’ll be seen, discovered, revealed.

But tonight, there is no one. And now, you are alone. Above, the night sky shimmers through the soft haze of Caphtor’s environmental shielding; it’s raining outside, but no rain was scheduled for tonight, so if you can squint, you can see the distant flickers of raindrops burning away to nothing above the tallest spires. The breeze is dry and cool as it winds through the branches.

The gardens you now call home are opulent. There’s really no other word. The Annunaki take and take and take, and one thing they take are the lushest and most beautiful flowers and plants from every world they conquer. With a rasp of many leathery wings, tiny Bats flutter to and fro, pollinating and drinking deeply of dew.

At night, the gardens shine with bioluminescence, indigo and sapphire and violet, with the path under your feet burning vivid as opals. You can’t let your guard down completely— the gardens are open at all hours of day and night— but as long as you are attentive, you have little risk of discovery. There are few eyes painted here for Caphtor to see through.

The footsteps of the black-eyed girl are silent. She’s... different. Less substantial. You feel the ebb and flow of her thoughts, an acidic sea lapping at your toes, deliberately not overwhelming you with immersion in something so alien and strange.

Frogs (Earth frogs, real ones) croak in the pond. They’ve established a good place for themselves in the patchwork, hellish ecosystem of the gardens: eating insects from halfway across the galaxy with all the absurd stateliness only a frog can perfect. That’s where the two of you stop to talk.

***

[b]Canada![/b]

“You’re up late.”

God! Does she have to do that? Your heart rate jumped up to approximately seven million miles an hour with [i]I’m caught[/i] before your heart kicked in with a sigh of longing. Even now, as you turn to face her, you’re still dealing with the physical effects of having fight-or-flight rammed directly into your veins.

Tirzah wears a blindfold. Back when you were traveling together, she spun you a sob story about how she was born blind, and now... well, now you don’t know if that’s true. It’s possible she really can see, and she only wears it because she’s trained in Ammun Vah, the art of seeing without sight, her senses so keenly attuned that she comes off as almost prescient. She can hear lies, smell fear, and fight in absolute darkness.

But it’s also possible that she was blinded, by accident or by intention, to make her the weapon she is. She always smiled when you described things to her, her fingers entwined in yours, her head on your shoulder, as you sat in a dingy diner or out under the stars you didn’t know she came from.

And [i]that[/i] is a whole pile of worms on its own. Annunaki [i]don’t[/i] fuck their slaves, thank goodness; it’s not just that you’re incompatible when it comes to reproduction, but that it would be lowering themselves on the Great Chain, which is a big no-no. Unthinkable, even. They prefer to ogle you and use your humiliation and debasement to get in the mood.

But, again, and this is very important as she silently walks towards you in the deserted corridor, a floor away from your bunk: Tirzah is very confusing and sends a [i]lot[/i] of mixed signals. Maybe it’s you trying to cling onto your childish dreams of marrying her in Paris. Maybe it’s her, twisting you around her little finger and making you her weapon to bring down the resistance from within. Or, maybe (her smooth fingers cup your hip) she wants to slide down that Great Chain like it was a greased fireman’s pole.

“I wonder, why shouldn’t I tell Auntie Rose that you’re sneaking around?” Oof. Straight to “I’m going to tell your manager,” thanks, Tirzah. Well, your manager’s manager: that harsh Thornback works most closely with the domestic staff, relying on the Head Armorer to deal with the likes of you. “I think you should make it worth my while,” she says, spreading her fingers on your collarbone.

See? Mixed. Signals.

***

[b]Ètoile![/b]

So, let’s hear it straight: just how petulant and petty was Marianne in arranging you just so to be found, completely innocent, completely in need of salvation, to be picked up and given pats and ushered back home after a quick interrogation, in which of course you would be just a useless, overdramatic mess?

(You do not know, yet, that there is an Inquisitor here already. Perhaps that would not make a difference to you; perhaps it would make you quail.)

Out with it! When that red tide, that incandescent rage receded, in what condition, in what locale, did little helpless Ètoile find herself, knowing that she had done this to herself, that you have no one to blame but yourself?