Author's Note:
Delicious. Finally some good fucking plot.
This was another tricky one to write by virtue of being yet another frankendraft. My thanks to my friends and beta readers for helping me workshop the damn thing. The next chapter is practically already drafted and the chapter art's been just about done for ages, thank goodness! Expect it soon. Chapter art for
this chapter isn't done yet, I'll get round to it.
Chapter-specific CWs:
Implied blood.
Chapter Changelog:
Expect a number of improvements to the prose in a week or so when I've had a chance to implement feedback from folks! And the chapter art...
eventually.
Chapter 5
What You Don't Know
"Get the fuck up, everyone! It's another wonderful training day!"
Salem wailed softly into her pillow. Human sleep schedules were an insult to good sense, and her hybrid brain did not seem to have picked up their predilection for diurnal living. Crepuscular,
crepuscular, that's what she was. She rolled the word around in her mouth. Yes, she was a creature of long sleeps and twilight hours.
"Salem, I'm going to kick your ass. You get to choose whether I do it in here, or in the gym!"
Salem turned her head to levy a weary glare at her friend. "I don't care about training. Want to find Laura."
The sneasel hybrid shrugged expansively. "We're gonna talk to Alisha about that just as soon as she's back from her trip. Remember you said she was the only human you wanted to ask? Come on, it's training time!"
"Why does this
matter, tell me again?"
Dusk laughed. "Pokémon love to fight! Didn't you want to be a League fighter with your Laura? Don't you want to see what morphs are capable of in a battle?"
"No," lied Salem. "I want to only sleep."
"I'll give you my croissants if you come to training with me."
That, tragically, was too powerful an incentive.
Salem rolled out of bed and hissed half-heartedly at Dusk, who beamed at her cheerfully and threw a lazy salute.
How was she already dressed? Her other roommate, the gallade-morph called Eliza, wasn't even dressed yet and
she was all serious looks and hard work. Did Dusk even sleep?
As was becoming routine, Salem blasted herself in the shower, wriggled into her uniform, and skulked out of the dorm after Dusk, Eliza having gone ahead already without fanfare. The sneasel did her morning ritual of thumping the corridor wall a few paces along with her fist. The morphs in the neighbouring dorm cried out in protest as always, and Dusk snickered quietly to herself as they headed to the battle grounds.
They passed by the canteen on their way to training, and while she
could go eat, it would mean missing out on early morning combat instruction, and therefore missing out on doing it with Dusk (and also
disappointing Dusk) who insisted that food before a fight put you at risk of cramps. So instead she just inhaled the smells coming from the hall as they passed, shuddered a little with anticipation, and rolled her eyes back in her head as she imagined eating something hot and buttery after training. And seconds. Yes please.
The coliseum's gymnasium configuration was a wide open space, making use of the largest indoor area in the facility to host everything a morph could need to physically or mentally train for fitness and for combat. Chalk lines indicated battle spaces, scuffed by repeated use and scorched by fire and lightning from previous combatants. Mundane exercise equipment stood ready for building a stronger physique. Dummies stood by for target practice. A racing track encircled the room, around which some morph or group of morphs was often running at any time of day. Salem waved hesitantly to Eliza, breaking a sweat on a pull-up bar, and received a terse nod in reply. Dusk, as always, waited for Salem with that sharp grin.
Class proper would begin shortly. For now, though, Dusk would play teacher.
"What are we trying today?" she asked, sing-song.
Salem had an answer prepared this time.
"Teach me how to fight," she said, eyes dilating. Her first few days of training had been heavy on stretches, exercises, and obstacle courses. Her only
literal 'fight' since stepping in her tank had been the snowball fight a few days back. But dummies that never fought back were
boring; she felt ready for more.
The grin showed every one of Dusk's carnivore teeth.
"Okay, Southpaw."
Another nickname, a reference to Salem's dominant left hand. She wondered if every morph collected nicknames like she did.
Dusk taught her a new stance first, for defence. Then, a handful of punches, swipes, kicks and blocks. The sneasel was confident in every one of them, as if she had learnt them years ago, rather than days. The rapid learning effect was still in play, it seemed.
"Ready?"
"I think so."
"Then show me!"
Dusk waited for Salem to approach with a strike, then just as she wound back an arm, Dusk jabbed her in the side with curled knuckles. Painful! But better than claws.
Salem spat, and went in again, this time with a lunge. The moment she did, Dusk was on her left, landing a blow on her back. Hiss!
Wild strikes, fast and plentiful – Dusk ducked and dodged, then kicked her in the shins when she ran out of momentum.
"Is this really training?" Salem yowled, bitterly.
"No talking during training!" said Dusk, all teeth and glee.
Dusk's jabs, scratches, and smacks all stung, but Salem wasn't tired out yet. Within a few more good blows she became used to it, her anger wore off, and she could keep her mind on the fight.
Breathing hard and dodging strikes, Salem realised that this wasn't a matter of effort, like in physical training. Nor was it like the fights she'd had as a purrloin.
This was more of a puzzle. She could fight and think simultaneously. It was almost like being her own pokémon trainer. She could make a plan.
"Don't slow down, hit me!" cried Dusk.
Salem tried a few more jabs, not really expecting them to land, and looked for what Dusk did in response.
'Southpaw,' Dusk had called her at the start. Her opponent was always moving to her left, Salem realised. That way, Dusk kept making it harder for Salem to swing with any force with her stronger left paw. It was
obvious. Anger flooded into her head.
Stupid! She'd missed it! But she could
use this.
Salem went in for a jab: a feint! And swung hard with her
right fist.
There was a dull crack, sharp pain in her fingers, two cries of surprise – her own and Dusk's.
"Are you okay?" she yelped.
But the grin was bigger than ever.
"Nice! Good! Yes!" shouted Dusk, eyes wild. "That's what I want! Do it again!"
She got to her feet without help and came at Salem. On the defence now, Salem put up her arms as she'd been taught. Block, block – it was painful, but it saved her face… And it let her hit back.
Dusk's wild energy was infectious, and Salem took on the same furious aspect. Block, block, strike, strike, strike. Nothing else. Not even the pain.
Salem learnt fast, even for a morph. Dusk's attacks weren't terrifying threats now – block, strike, block – they were rote. Easy. She was even faster than she needed to be. She was weightless, tireless, limitless!
She knocked a jabbing arm to the side and caught Dusk on the throat.
Dusk's eyes flashed, then her claws. Her next attack was instantaneous, powerful, and impossible to block.
Someone – herself? Salem wasn't sure – cried out. She staggered back, clutching at her own neck.
"Salem! I didn't mean—"
A tumble backward; a flinch as her head hit floor. The ceiling and its many bright lights. There were so few shadows in the gym. There was metal-scent in the air, and wetness on her fur. Her head rang.
She mumbled something unclear. She didn't feel much of anything, not yet, but she had the vague notion that very soon she would be in a great deal of pain.
Someone was tending to her.
Had she made a mistake?
Maybe she'd got something wrong.
XxX
"It's a good thing hybrids are almost as tough as pokémon," someone was saying, in a voice that sounded
almost human but for a soft, insistent reverberation, like an echo in the skull.
"Eliza?" muttered Salem. She blinked away the stars in her eyes and saw the gallade girl, eyes fixed on Salem's head. Up close, Eliza looked more human than any morph, but for her porcelain-white skin and slate-grey head crest.
"Yes. You'll be alright in a moment; you haven't sustained a concussion or serious blood loss. Just a knockout and a light wound. I've applied a potion. You ought to be fine by this afternoon."
Eliza raised a brow at Dusk, who was looking sheepish on the other side of Salem, and stood to leave. Dusk looked down at Salem and offered her a hand up. She took it.
"Feeling okay?" asked the sneasel.
Salem wet her lips, and touched the scab on her neck, then the bruise on her head. They weren't so bad.
"Yes. I have been hurt more badly than this. Before."
"Uh, okay. I'm glad you're okay. You did good. Really good! Just… Maybe don't go for the neck next time. We don't do that. Not unless— You don't do that."
Salem nodded, swallowed, and tried to focus on
'you did good.'
Dusk beckoned her over, and Salem followed her to the benches to the side of the sparring court. More of their classmates were present – including Veracity, to her chagrin – as was the absol-morph instructor, Whiskey. He nodded to her and gave a quick [well done] gesture to Eliza.
"Is anyone not ready?" he growled, once everyone had taken a seat. "Any problems?" No-one spoke. He grunted in approval. "Good. Let's begin."
Whiskey inclined his head and tapped the curved, bladed horn that crowned one side of his scalp. His claw made a sharp knocking sound as he tapped.
"Many of you have been staring at this thing," he began, without scorn in his tone. "I expect you've been thinking to yourselves that it must be quite a weapon. For a natural absol, it can be used on its own as a slashing implement, or serve as a focus for such attacks as megahorn. I could do the same. But – and pay
attention, Sriracha – it is not the most important combat tool available to me by any means. Any guesses?"
Eliza's hand shot up. Whiskey waved at her to speak up while hardly looking at her.
"Your brain, sir?"
Whiskey chuckled just once, sharply. "Good answer. It wasn't a trick question, I'm looking for a physical weapon, but full credit for creative thinking."
"Claws?" called out Sriracha.
Whiskey squinted wearily at the blaziken. "Claws? What? No. Bad answer. Come on, third time's the charm, they say. Anyone? You, new morph. Take a guess."
Salem froze, the absol's scrutiny already enough to make her tail puff up.
"Uh."
The absol shook his head, and reached down for Salem's forearm. He took it and raised it up, shifting his grip up past her wrist as he did so.
"What is
this?" snapped Whiskey. He gripped her paw in his such that he was pressing his thumb into the part of her palm nearest her fingers. The pressure made her splay her fingers and extend her claws. For a moment her hackles went up, but then she felt Dusk's lower leg against hers, and knew there was no danger. Her fur flattened a little.
"…What?"
"What is this thing I am holding?" he repeated.
"It's my paw?" she blurted, looking right up at him with her eyes dilated.
"What's it for?"
"I don't—"
"Your 'paw'," he demanded. "What is your paw
for? What do you do with it?"
"Scratching," she said, instantly. But that didn't sound right in her ears even as she spoke it.
"Try again." He tilted his head at her expectantly.
"Signing," she said, correcting herself. "I sign more than I scratch. I… I communicate. That's right, isn't it? Communication is the weapon. Teamwork."
"It's a much
better answer," he said, and dropped her paw to step back again. "We'll cover teamwork later, it's a bit advanced for now. Well done."
Whiskey faced his students, sighed deeply and asked, "Can anyone here explain what your 'paws' are for?"
There was a metallic shearing sound as Veracity raised her wing. Whiskey glanced at her, and she spoke up immediately.
"Whatever you need them for," she croaked. "A
hand is capable of countless tasks, most of them more useful than inflicting small injuries on another creature."
Whiskey nodded, the corners of his mouth turning down pensively. "That is, in fact, word-for-word what I said the last time it came up in class. You have a keen memory."
The corviknight didn't even look
pleased. Just somehow… confident. Salem didn't feel so hungry any more.
"Hands are capable of countless uses on their own," continued Whiskey, "including bothphysical attacks
and signing, along with channelling elemental energy. They are also capable of using the many tools of humanity, designed to be held in human hands."
Whiskey's expression barely changed, but for a hint of smug satisfaction below his usual dourness.
"You'll learn about
those in due time. For now, I'd like to demonstrate the value of hands in
combat by subduing an opponent without using any typed attacks at all. Veracity?"
The corviknight-morph stood, and stepped forward wordlessly to stand near Whiskey. She stared down at him with avian coldness. The absol didn't miss a beat.
"Go ahead and attack me," he growled.
Veracity went for him in a flash of polished feathers, her arms gleaming with steel-type energy. Whiskey was ready for her.
Salem hardly followed the movements of the absol's body. He stepped to one side,
took hold of Veracity's arm, and pulled her forward. In an instant, the corviknight was hurtling over Whiskey's back, arms akimbo, and then with a decisive lunge he had her pressed to the ground in a sprawl. He paused long enough to make his control of the situation clear, then stepped smartly back to allow Veracity to rise to her feet.
Their faces barely changed throughout. Salem's had turned into a gawp with ears pinned back in shock, just from watching. She could get her head around learning new and challenging combat techniques; she couldn't see herself ever being so calm and matter-of-fact as the instructor and his volunteer.
"Some more good answers I've had from other students include 'creativity' and 'misdirection'," remarked Whiskey, as he returned to his spot in front of the benches. "The bottom line is that hybrids have more options –
you have more options – than natural weapons and typed attacks in a fight. For today's sparring sessions, I want to see creativity, misdirection,
brains. Not just ordinary strikes. Impress me! Veracity will take the first challenge. Don't expect her to go easy on you."
The corviknight stood at ease in front of the class and waited quietly for someone to approach. That someone, very quickly, was Sriracha. He stood tall, stepped forward, and cracked his knuckles. When he did, flames sputtered into life around his wrists.
"I am an ace striker," he announced, with pride. "Very good at fighting."
Veracity bowed, just a little, and calmly strode to her side of the small battle court. Sriracha took his place with a cocky twirl and a trail of flame.
"We're gonna see who is the boss bird," whispered Dusk. Salem stifled a giggle.
Whiskey held up an arm.
"One round, win by technical knockout or yield. Standard rules apply. I want to see creative fighting, you two. You're hybrids, now."
Veracity nodded expressionlessly. Sriracha was focused on dancing from foot to foot, balling his fists, staring down his opponent. Whiskey growled under his breath.
"Match, begin!"
Sriracha cried out and resumed the odd twirling he'd done before, only faster, more purposeful. With each motion he thrust a claw out as if striking the air, and crowed sharply.
"Swords dance," commentated Whiskey, quietly.
Veracity watched without making a move of her own. She hardly blinked.
Sriracha brandished his blazing claws at her, cocking his head in confusion.
"The fight started!" he shouted. "Fight me!"
Veracity crossed her arms. "I am fighting you," she replied.
Sriracha scoffed with a harsh chirp and resumed his dancing motions. Veracity made no attempt to interrupt, until the blaziken's claws and beak were practically aglow with energy even after he came to a stop.
"Big mistake," he crowed. Then he struck.
Sriracha's body erupted in flames so bright that Salem shrank back from the heat, and he dashed headlong towards Veracity.
"Flare blitz," muttered Whiskey.
In the instant before he made contact, the corviknight braced herself, clutching her shoulders and drawing in a kind of orange light around herself.
"
Endure," said Whiskey, with apparent relish.
Sriracha's body collided with Veracity's, and her metallic plumage glowed with the heat of the fire. Her feathers gave off grey smoke and a low roaring sound as they cooled. But she did not collapse. The orange light from before circled her body in a tight loop.
Without a word, she struck back. A feathered arm lashed out with enough power to send a shockwave through the air, and send Sriracha tumbling backwards like a plastic bag caught in the wind. His limbs thudded against the court ground as he rolled to a stop. He did not move except to utter a thoroughly winded moan.
"Reversal," announced Whiskey. "A move that grows in strength the closer the user is to fainting. Excellent technique." Then, after a few seconds, "Sriracha can no longer battle. Veracity wins."
Veracity nodded curtly to Whiskey, and walked off the court. She looked hardly able to stand. Eliza tossed a potion to her, and she caught it deftly. She didn't wince as she sprayed it on her injuries. Meanwhile, Eliza went to help Sriracha back to the benches.
"Striking power alone will not win battles, if your opponent can turn your strength against you," said Whiskey, firmly. "Use your intelligence to surprise and control your opponent, and to protect yourself."
Sriracha wheezed as he got to his feet. "That was a good trick," he gasped. "I won't fall for it again."
Whiskey chuckled. "I hope you're right. Stay alert, everyone, and remember: sometimes the best fighting move is no move at all."
Salem swallowed hard. She'd been digging her claws into her palms as she watched. She didn't even know how to use basic moves, yet, let alone how she could compete with fighters like these.
"I've had enough training today," she told Dusk.
"Okay," replied the sneasel. "I'll catch up later with Eliza. Let's go eat."
Dusk excused them both from the lesson, and Whiskey waved them away. Only when there was a closed door between Salem and Veracity did her appetite return.
XxX
"Picking at it won't help it heal."
Salem sighed and shoved her left paw in her pocket. Dusk was grinning again, at least, although not in the same mad, toothy way as usual.
"It will get better," said Salem, flatly.
"If I catch you picking again, I'm putting your bandages back on."
"You can try."
Salem returned to picking at her food instead. While she had savoured the warm, buttery breakfast pastries she craved, and devoured a small collection of meats, Taylor had insisted she also eat fruit and vegetables to supply her modified nutritional needs. She didn't like the sound of suffering poor health from not meeting those needs. She didn't much like fruit and vegetables either. She ran her tongue over her back teeth, feeling their edges, their sharp points. They were meat-tearing teeth. Not meant for 'greens.'
"It's this or the supplements," said Dusk, for what seemed like the hundredth time.
"I know."
"The pills aren't so bad, you know."
"You said this already."
She continued to sulk towards her plate, until the silence was broken not by Dusk, but by Sriracha.
"Hello, ladies!" he said, sitting down opposite them with much clicking of claws on the tiled floor.
"Hello, Sauce," said Dusk, showing far too much of her upper teeth.
Sriracha's face instantly collapsed into a displeased frown.
"I don't call
you dumb things," he said, wattles quivering.
"Only because you can't think of anything to call me," retorted Dusk, jeering at him.
The blaziken stared at each of them in turn, using only one eye to do so, turning his head to the side like a bird.
"Why don't you like me?" he asked, earnestly. "I'm very cool. Everyone likes me."
Dusk laughed so hard her eyes scrunched up and she slapped the table. "You're so full of yourself!"
"What else would I be full of?" he asked, sincerely.
While Dusk continued laughing, Salem looked Sriracha over.
The blaziken, like Veracity, was another morph markedly dissimilar to herself. Mammals made up most of the population of morphs that she'd had any interaction with, and they at least had ears and fur and plenty of more-or-less the same body language as her, but he was
avian, and it showed. His feathers puffed up and shivered at almost any stimulation. A proud beak dominated his face, which did not seem to trouble him when he spoke or ate, but Salem imagined could deal a seriously painful bite. His wattles jiggled when he jolted his head this way and that, which he did
constantly. He could look to the side while keeping his head still if he wanted – every morph had that human talent now – but he made very little effort to adapt to his new form.
Salem had seen an un-morphed blaziken in some of the League matches she'd watched with Laura. They were already so much like humans. Perhaps the physical change wasn't meaningful to him. The change to his mind didn't seem to matter much either. Why
had he agreed to the Change?
"Being full of yourself means you like yourself too much," she told him, inducing further laughter from the sneasel. "It's . . . dangerous."
Sriracha made an odd noise in his beak that she didn't understand.
"Not liking myself would be bad," he said, as if discussing today's lunch options. "I'm very good at fighting, and that's good. I'm good."
Conversation with less articulate morphs wasn't quite the stimulating experience Salem hoped for in a social encounter. Sriracha was perhaps the best example of such a morph.
While she was thinking of something else to say, Dusk recovered from her giggling fit and spoke up for her.
"You haven't fought me yet," said the sneasel. Despite her persistent grin, there was an edge to it. When Dusk was serious, her eyes didn't crease as much. The inflection at the end of her words went
down, instead of up. Salem could tell.
"I'd beat you," replied Sriracha, his head tilting further to the side. "Fire beats ice. Fighting beats both ice and dark. I'd beat you easily."
Dusk shook her head, slowly. "Nah. You don't know what real fighting is, Sauce. When we get paired up in practice, you'll learn."
Sriracha apparently didn't have any way to respond to that, or didn't think it was worth replying to, so after a few seconds of intense avian concentration he gave up and spoke to Salem instead.
"Don't worry, Purrloin! You will get good at fighting very fast, faster than you think. And then you won't be hurt as easy or as bad! Good luck!"
He stood from the canteen bench and wandered off, neatly avoiding any further barbed remarks from Dusk.
"Why are you so mean to him?" asked Salem, out of pure curiosity.
"He's an idiot," replied Dusk, not looking up from her food. "I don't like that. Being an idiot gets people killed."
Dusk didn't go on to elaborate on this point, and Salem had no knowledge as of yet on how idiocy got you killed, but her human imagination provided her with several violent ideas about how you could get killed for being an idiot.
She was profoundly committed to not being an idiot.
She was not especially confident about whether she was one or not.
As the pair finished their food, the skitty-morph, Heather, pushed the canteen doors open and dashed several feet forward, clutching her tail. The doors had swung shut on it the day before when she'd become distracted on her way in, Salem recalled. This time, however, the doors swung shut only slowly, their momentum controlled by some kind of mechanism atop the hinges.
"Good," said Salem, firmly. "My tail is safe."
Dusk chuckled. "Told you it was worth it to complain about the doors."
The suggestion box was a new fixture in the morph lounge, installed shortly after Salem had moved into her dorm. It was a grey cylinder about the size of someone's head, with a thin slot on the upper face, and a small writing table beside it. A pad of paper and a pen were provided for the morphs, who were welcome to make complaints and requests and place them inside. Salem wasn't literate yet, but Dusk could scribe for her, as could the human staff when they weren't busy.
"Why not just talk to someone?" Salem had asked, when she'd first seen it. "Ask them with words? Talk about it?"
Dusk had shrugged. "Well, what if you can't find them? Or you're shy?"
[What is the meaning of] "shy" [please?]
"Oh it's like…" [Being scared, but in deference, not of a threat]
"I'm not shy!"
"Yes but
someone might be shy, and
they can use the box! Anyway, it helps to have your ask written down so nobody will forget it. Right?"
Bickering had broken out any time someone wanted to use the box, at first. The mightyena, Bramble, deemed it "official" and "human" and therefore inexplicable and best avoided, and several morphs followed his lead. It lasted a tense afternoon, until Dusk started submitting joke requests. She'd made dozens of them, asking for everything from a new battle court inside the canteen, to a delivery service to bring breakfast to her dorm. After that, other morphs felt more comfortable making actual requests.
It seemed that the first one to get a response was canteen doors that don't slam shut. Several morphs had submitted that one, including Salem.
Dusk flashed a confident smile. "Do you feel better about asking for help to see Laura, now?"
Salem pursed her lips, hesitantly thrashed her tail, and then nodded to Dusk.
Yes. The suggestion box was good.
XxX
When they reached the morph lounge, something was wrong.
Salem could hear chatter. More than just loud chatter, in fact. There was always some casual conversation to be heard, and morphs often spoke loudly when excited. This time it had a sharpness to it. There were people being loud not for fun, but to shout each other down.
"—had it up to here with your naivety," one voice was saying. "You should expect more of yourself than preening, flexing and strutting about as if your past life still matters!"
It sounded familiar, but Salem didn't quite recognise the speaker.
"I don't like you! And I don't like the things you say! I'm right and you're bad!"
Salem easily distinguished the second voice as Sriracha's.
Dusk looked at Salem with a frown and put a clawed finger to her lips. [Shush!]
"We should make no noise ourselves," she said, "or we will be part of the fight."
Salem signed an anxious [huh?] in return.
[Shush!] again, this time with a roll of the eyes.
Salem took the point, and was careful to open the doors without drawing attention to herself. They slipped through and saw Sriracha and Eliza in the middle of the lounge, standing with their faces barely a foot apart and yelling at each other, his wattle quivering and her eyes narrowed. The roundness of the room lent itself to a kind of circle of morphs, all looking in. They stood just off from the blaziken and the gallade, variously trying to talk over the argument, fidgeting nervously, or enjoying the spectacle.
"You're still thinking like a brainless young League sweeper," Eliza shouted, hands balled into fists at her side. "You're not a
blaziken any more, you're a hybrid! You're human as well as pokémon!
More human!"
Sriracha was alternately yelling back, making explosive avian vocalisations, and signing furiously with sparks bursting from his wrists as he did.
"I
was a League sweeper! The best!" [I could knock you out, easily! I'm warning you!] "I'm not stupid! You're stupid!"
Salem's ears flattened back against her head. "He says things without thinking," she observed.
[Shush!] from Dusk again, but the grin was back.
Dusk led Salem around the gaggle of hybrids and hopped up on one of the couches. Salem joined her. The view was better from the back of a couch.
The shouting continued, only now the two of them weren't even stopping when the other spoke, and Sriracha's wrists had lit up with flickering flames. Eliza hadn't brandished the spurs that protruded from her elbows yet. She never had before now, not outside of training.
"What's going to happen?" asked Salem.
Eliza and Sriracha could hurt each other. That could happen. It could be bad, bad enough to send one of both of them to the infirmary.
She dug a claw into her palm.
Dusk shrugged. "Eliza isn't an idiot, she's just angry. She can kick his ass without anything going wrong. It's fine. I think that will happen, actually. I want to see them have an actual battle."
Salem's heart jumped. She used to watch League fights with Laura, back home. Her heart had jumped then, like she'd been part of the battles just by seeing them.
"I think I do too," she said, so quietly she didn't think Dusk would hear.
In the centre of the circle, Eliza's spurs extended away from her arms, and she raised her fists. Sriracha's wrists flared hot.
A sharp
bang jolted a dozen morph heads away from the fight as the double doors of the main corridor slammed open.
"I know I've been away for a couple days," called out the human now entering the lounge, "but I
don't remember this being the
training grounds."
Alisha.
Salem's ears perked and her tail quivered as her current favourite human returned. And a day early! This was wonderful!
Eliza retracted her spurs and stepped smartly back, eyes raised to stare at the wall somewhere above Sriracha's head. Sriracha crossed his arms and let his wrists smoulder against his shirt. Alisha strode forwards, waving her hands at the morphs in loose pokésign to break up the circle. She sighed as she addressed the would-be combatants.
"Honestly, you two. Whatever it is you're bickering about can go to your counsellors, and if you
must beat each other up, you ought to be doing it with supervision. Mike's on duty in the gym. Now, do you
really want to fight?"
Sriracha nodded like his head was about to come off. Eliza didn't reply, still staring.
"Right, well, go to your dorms and cool your heads, and if you still want to punch each other, you go find Mike and get him to referee it. Understand?"
Sriracha bobbed his head. Eliza hesitated, then gave a terse, "Yes, Alisha."
"Right. Clear off then. You'd have upset yourselves if you'd trashed your own lounge, huh? Yeah, I thought so. I'll see you two later."
Eliza turned sharply on her heels and walked directly away. Sriracha took a moment longer, but then left in the opposite direction. Alisha brushed a lock of hair to the side and shook her head.
"Ex-League 'mon, huh," she muttered. "Mew's marbles, what a pain."
Salem poured herself off the couch and padded around to Alisha's side.
"Heya," she said, waving and smiling. "Was your thing good?"
"Mm?" Alisha turned to her, and chuckled. "Oh, hey there," [Hello, Pickpocket!] "Yeah, it was a good trip. You'll have a few morphs junior to you a month from now. What's up?"
Salem glanced to Dusk, who nodded encouragingly and came to join her.
"My old human," Salem began, not having rehearsed for this. "Laura. I'm thinking about her. I want to see her; I want to talk to her."
She groaned at frustration at her ever-clumsy words, and tried to get to the heart of it.
"Alisha… Please, help me?"
Alisha raised a hand and pressed its knuckles to her lips. She looked thoughtful. That could mean help was coming. Or disappointment.
"Most morphs have no interest in contacting anyone from their old life," mused Alisha. "It's… Well, it's not something I've been asked to handle, before."
Dusk cleared her throat.
"You promised me something about my old life before I was Changed," she said, quietly, in a tone of voice Salem hadn't heard from her before. "This is what Salem would ask, if she
could ask first. I don't think it will be very hard to find this human. It is not a big thing to ask for. You should agree to do this."
Alisha considered this further, with her head tipped and her gaze askew.
Salem dug her claws into her palm. Maybe, if Alisha said no, Salem could just
insist, the way she had with the nurses.
At last, Alisha threw up her hand and nodded. "I'll look into it," she said. "But I can't promise I'll find her, or that I can do much besides that. These things are tricky. We try very hard to keep you safe, you know. Not to attract attention from dangerous sorts. But look… At the very least, I can say I'll try my best."
For a moment, Salem was weightless. Aloft, and full of brightness. She forgot how to speak and sign. She panicked for a second, then she put her head forward and pressed it against Alisha's hand.
The human laughed, and patted her on the shoulder. "Okay, yeah, you're welcome. Sure thing. Laura, right?"
Salem nodded in confirmation.
"Okay, that's a start. What else can you tell me about her?"
Salem did her best to supply information, with the occasional clarifying comment from Dusk, who'd figured out what parts of Galarish were hard for her. Laura, an only child of a snow-blanketed city home to many snom and frosmoth. Gone to university somewhere Salem couldn't follow. Dark hair, pale skin, green eyes to match Salem's.
"I'll try and look her up when I have a free minute," agreed Alisha, fiddling with the cuff of her dress shirt, "and see about getting you in touch. Take care, you two." Then, in sign, [Goodbye, little Pickpocket. Bye, Setting Sun.]
Salem stood and watched Alisha leave. Her fingers on one hand twitched to the beat of the seconds going by, as if by counting them, she'd somehow hasten Alisha's return. Would she actually find Laura? Would Laura
want to see Salem again? Her breath caught. Was Laura even
okay?
"Hey."
She looked around at Dusk, and signed a small thanks to her, with a sheepish smile. The sneasel laughed.
"Nice one. Now stop worrying about it. If we are fast, maybe we can go to the coliseum in time to see Eliza beat up Sauce. Would you like that?"
Salem had run out of words for the morning, so she just raised both hands, thumbs sticking up. [Strong approval,] that meant. A good sign.
Dusk grinned.
"Race you there?"
A race? Sure! Salem accepted by stealing a head start, running right past Dusk in the direction of the coliseum, her laughing friend close behind.
